


The Blade of a Princess

by Word_Devourer



Category: Princess Bride (1987), The Princess Bride - Simon Morgenstern
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, Styled after canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 35,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Word_Devourer/pseuds/Word_Devourer
Summary: “Grampa…  Are you going to read me fanfiction?”When her true love is murdered by pirates, Buttercup, in her despair, swears revenge upon his killer.
Relationships: Buttercup/Westley (Princess Bride)
Comments: 448
Kudos: 675





	1. "Grampa, are you going to read me fanfiction?"

**Author's Note:**

> To those of you wondering, someone suggested a rewrite of The Princess Bride in a tumblr post. I wrote a scene from it, and there was quite a bit of excitement.  
> Behold the offending post:  
> https://worddevourer.tumblr.com/post/617615662446215168/well-said-inigo-shrugging-i-myself-am-no
> 
> The intent is to keep this fairly short, but, knowing my track record, that's no guarantee that it will be.

He laid back in his bed.

This was a cold, right? It _had_ to be cold because… Well, because _what else_ could it be?

But, given the… Global circumstances, he was going to be stuck in his room, alone, until his symptoms were good and cleared.

He sighed, looking around.

He could read a book, of course, but he knew from experience how bad that felt for his neck…

There was a familiar beeping sound from next to him, repetitive, but milder than a ringtone.

Someone video-calling him.

He groaned, and sat up enough to reach the tablet on his end-table.

He blinked, staring at the name, and accepted the call.

He was greeted by the sight of an old man, staring down at the screen, a bit closer to the camera than he should have been.

There was an instant of lag, and he pulled back.

_“Eyy! How’s the sickie?”_

He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t keep a smile off his face.

“Not bad, Grampa; you can’t pinch my cheek from there, though.”

The old man laughed.

“Nah… So, you holdin’ up good over there?”

“Fine. Bored, though, so it’s nice that you called.”

He nodded, pleased, and there was a long pause.

“So, did you just call in to talk, or…”

“Nahh.”

“Well, I ought to warn you, I _did_ just read through The Princess Bride yesterday, so if you’re calling to read it to me now...”

His grandfather chuckled. “And here I was thinking you’d gotten bored of hearing the same old story. If I’d known, I’da called yesterday! Nah, see, after I gave you my copy, _your mother_ suggested I get another one, on a… was’ it called, a _Kindle_.”

“I remember. You got angry at the idea of having to pay for a book you’d owned for so long… So she suggested that it was probably public domain…” He nodded, the dispute coming back to him. “So did you end up finding a free copy?”

He nodded, clearly satisfied with himself. “ _I did._ And I found a lot of people writing about it. Lotta strange, _strange_ things, but I read some of it and forgot that it wasn’t the man himself writing…” He shook his head, and chuckled, in that particular way of his.

There was a pause.

_“Grampa… Are you going to read me fanfiction?”_

Internally, he struggled to imagine what his grandfather could possibly have found that would… Surely, there had to be plenty of short love stories for Buttercup and Westley, and… doubtless plenty more for… Other, less intended pairings… The mental image of his grandfather finding the more _adult_ sections (which… Surely there were, right? There _always_ were) rose in his head.

But, no… It was probably… A sequel, or something. Westley and Buttercup riding off into the sunset, and… Surely his grandfather could be trusted not to… Yeah…

“Because… I mean, I’m definitely bored… And you haven’t read to me in a long time, so… If that’s what you’re saying… Go ahead?”

“Your vote of confidence, as always, is overwhelming.”

He pulled back, and cleared his throat.

 _“The Blade of a Princess…_ by Word Devourer. ‘When her true love is murdered by pirates, Buttercup, in her despair, swears revenge upon his killer.’ And I thought, well, murdered by pirates is good…” His eyes seemed to skim down a little bit. “Here we go.”


	2. Storybook Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young love, the same story you've heard a thousand times over...

Buttercup was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin. Her favorite pastimes were riding her horse and tormenting the farm boy that worked there. His name was Westley, but she never called him that. All she ever called him was ‘farm boy’

Nothing gave Buttercup as much pleasure as ordering Westley around. Perhaps it was that her horse’s saddle needed to shine before the next morning, or that the cistern needed filling.

All he ever said was ‘As you wish,’ and, after years of hearing it, Buttercup slowly began to realize that when he said it, what he _truly_ meant was ‘I love you.’ The day she realized that was one of the most exciting of her life, and it was only days later that she realized that it was because she truly loved him back.

//

_“Hold it, hold it. This is literally the same narration from the original! Trust me, I read it yesterday.”_

“Wait, just wait.”

“Well, when does it… It’s still when he gets murdered by pirates, isn’t it.”

His grandfather just chuckled.

//

Westley had no money for marriage. So, he packed his few belongings, and left the farm to seek his fortune across the sea.

It was a very emotional time for Buttercup.

As they stood there, the light of the rising sun upon them, neither wanted to be the first to leave. Yet, Westley had little choice, and, with nothing else to give, he gave Buttercup his most fervent assurance that he would always return for her; true love could not be stopped by something so petty as distance. And then, shaken though both of them were by the separation, he left.

Westley didn’t reach his destination. His ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate Roberts, who never left captives alive. When Buttercup got the news that Westley was murdered, she went into her room, and shut the door. And for days, she neither ate, nor slept.

\--

Westley was dead.

Westley was dead, and _she_ yet lived.

To Buttercup, little could have been more repugnant. Perhaps she should have gone with him. Perhaps, if she had been there…

They would at least have died together.

To her, in the depths of her suffering, that would have been a relief.

And what was she to do now?

She would never love again; she knew that.

And a life without love… It was unthinkable.

So, what now? What was a fractured woman to do?

She could not die, nor even truly _wish_ for death; even here, she knew that Westley would have wanted her to live on. Perhaps if she carried on… Perhaps…

Her fist clenched beneath her.

True love is a strange thing; it is not easily broken, and it is, in many ways, a very protective thing. And, when it cannot protect, it must avenge.

In her hovel, Buttercup stood up. She was silent, but deep within her broken heart was a roaring. Something furious cried out for blood.

The Dread Pirate Roberts had taken her love from her.

She would find him, and she would kill him.


	3. The Princess... Buttercup!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humperdinck introduces his betrothed to the people.

Five years later, the main square of Florin City was filled as never before to hear announcement of the great Prince Humperdinck’s bride-to-be.

He stood on high, gazing down at the crowd with the bearing and poise expected of a man raised as royalty.

“My people! A month from now, our country will have its 500th anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a lady who was once a commoner like yourselves…” He gazed across the plaza, where the people did not yet know to look. “Perhaps you will not find her common now. Would you like to meet her?”

The people roared their approval, and he had to work to keep his smile reserved. They would be so easy to manipulate.

He gestured, and, as one, they turned, and, appearing before them… The crowd _stared,_ and he knew he’d chosen well.

“My people… the princess, _Buttercup!”_

\--

Buttercup descended the steps, and her face was cold, motionless. The people stared at her, doubtless taken by her appearance, and then, irregularly, seemingly driven by some invisible spirit between them, they knelt.

A hundred… Two hundred… More. All they needed to see was the dress, and her hair, and her face. Or, then again, perhaps they were cowed by her expression. Regardless of the reason, the sight did not stir her.

\--

Buttercup had no love for Prince Humperdinck. The marriage had been of his arrangement, and though the law of the land gave him the right to choose his bride, Buttercup had sworn to him that she would never accept it.

Humperdinck had insisted that she would _grow_ to love him, but nothing he said had managed to sway her, either in his favor, or against her chosen pursuits. Buttercup had taken up the sword mere months after Westley had left, and poured much of what remained of herself into the craft of fencing. To those who fought her, she had seemed at first a furious novice, and then, as the months had passed, a grim master.

She had taken to horse-riding with an even greater vigor than she once had, and had become an avid collector of information on the doings of pirates and highwaymen.

However, whatever knowledge people had of her fighting, or her information-gathering, none within the castle had noticed her visit to the treasury, nor the way that she slipped away one day to a local tavern, with a small sack of coins, and returned later, empty handed. Perhaps it was the heavy cloak that she had worn in spite of the sun overhead.

And so, it was in the depths of the night, when a group of three men approached the castle.


	4. A Trio of Assassins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a good reason Humperdinck hasn't been able to find a suitable set of kidnappers to take Buttercup...

“ _D_ idn’t you _s_ ay we s _h_ ould be quiet?” said the man in the back, casting about them for any sign that they’d been spotted.

The man in the front waved a hand dismissively, a gesture that the man in the back didn’t see, as it was blocked by the absolutely _titanic_ man in the middle. _“We’ve passed the guards,”_ he said, his voice grating and nasal, “And our employer said that this door would be unguarded.”

“Are you _s_ ure we can trust him? I have _l_ earned never to feel safe around those w _h_ o wear masks.”

“We’ve done nothing in Florin that would put a bounty on our heads!”

“Couldn’t it be a bounty from somewhere else?” rumbled the man in the middle.

The man in the back made a gesture, that, had it been visible, would have said _‘exactly.’_

The man in front sighed, evidently displeased. “If that were _truly_ to be the case,” he said, as if explaining to children, “then you would just have to fight a path out. Besides, to return to the original point, however much noise I make, _you,”_ he seemed to refer to the massive man, “would be what they would notice.”

The man looked down at his feet, still followed.

Behind him, the man in the back patted him lightly on the waist, which was level with his head. “Oh, Fezzik, do not let him bother you. I believe Vizzini is _s_ imply… _Stressed.”_

The giant, Fezzik, smiled, softly. “Thanks Inigo… It’s just hard not to get… _Depressed_.”

Inigo chuckled. “I _d_ o hope perhaps he will come around soon.”

Fezzik nodded, and considered his response. After a second, he glanced up. “Ah. I’ve heard that people change under a full moon.”

“Quit it with the rhymes back there,” said Vizzini, rolling his eyes.

“Maybe, if that means we’re getting somewhere.”

Vizzini let out an aggravated groan, but they were, in fact, getting somewhere.

Somewhere, in this case, was the wall of the castle, where a figure in a deep, blood red was waiting for them, by an open door.

As they arrived, Vizzini bowed, half-mocking.

“We, your loyal servants, have arrived, Eminence.” It was impossible to tell whether he was sincere, or whether it was a point of irony, considering their business.

Their employer seemed unimpressed.

“You have,” he said, in a strangely light, yet deadly serious tone.

His hair was cut short, but it was a brilliant gold, even in the darkness. At his side, there was a sword. He stood almost like Inigo.

“Preparing a feast?” asked Vizzini, seemingly in reference to the large carcass that was lying beside him.

He shook his head.

“You,” he nodded at Fezzik, “can you carry this?” Fezzik looked at the body, seemingly a pig, then shrugged, stepped forward, and lifted it under one arm.

“Good. Tonight, you complete the first half of your employment, tomorrow, we begin the other.”

“Naturally,” said Vizzini, “and may I ask, whose death is it that we are faking?”

Their employer regarded them.

“You are aware that the prince is betrothed?”

“I am.”

“She shall not marry him. We are here to see to that.”

“I see. I assume this pig will allow us to fake an assassination, then.”

He nodded.

“Then lead on.”

He did so, and they slipped inside the castle walls.

“I have heard rumors that they will double the guards, soon, but not yet. For now, stay close behind me, and we should not stray into any paths.”

“If we do, my Spaniard will dispatch them quickly.”

“No. Witnesses will lend credence to the story of assassination. That is why we will break the door as we exit.”

“It _s_ eems you will be _w_ ell exercised tonight, my friend,” said Inigo, nudging Fezzik.

Fezzik shrugged, as if to imply that it didn’t sound so bad.

“I would like to raise the question of the details of the second half of this endeavor,” said Vizzini, as they climbed another set of stairs. “If, as you say, you truly wish to seek out the pirate ship Revenge, then there will be the matter of finding it.”

“I know where to find a man who will know more. They say you have a silver tongue.”

“Only because I speak directly from my _wits_ ,” said Vizzini.

“You will convince him to tell us where the Revenge is. And then, you will take me to it.”

“In _deed_!” said Vizzini, though he seemed to consider the matter as they continued.

A minute more passed.

“This is the room.”

The door opened without issue, and they stepped inside.

“This is the second part of your payment,” said their employer.

The room was well appointed, with jewelry, gold chains, and fine fabrics, dresses that would sell well to the correct buyer.

“Take whatever valuables you can ransack.”

“Shall we be subtle about it?”

“No.”

Vizzini smiled widely.

 _This,_ he could get behind.

“Then the jewels first,” he said, and set about his business.

Their employer gestured at the bed, and Fezzik laid the pig carcass down on it, quite heavily.

“How’d you get it here while it was still warm?”

“With a wheelbarrow,” he said, drawing his sword.

“Oh,” said Fezzik, as the sword slashed down.

 _“Get the dresses,”_ said Vizzini, “I see gold thread.”

A few minutes passed, and by the end of them, the bed was covered in blood, and worse, and the room looked like it had played host to a storm.

Fezzik was laden with the better part of the haul, but Vizzini had secreted away most of the jewelry on his person.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Good,” said their employer, opening the window. “Now.” He looked meaningfully at what remained of the carcass.

Fezzik let out a sound of acknowledgement, or perhaps muted distaste, then shrugged, placed a single massive hand on the pig’s head, and lifted it. He stepped over to the window, and threw it out.

Their employer seemed pleased. He paused, looked back, and scattered a few locks of long, golden hair across the wreckage, almost the same color as his own. The image was complete.

“It will need to be removed once we are outside.”

“I trust you still have the wheelbarrow?” said Vizzini.

He nodded.

“Then _he_ will handle it,” he nodded at Inigo.

“Then you are ready?”

“If you are, _Eminence_.” The word, the same as before, reeked of amusement.

“Then we will return the way we came.”

The stepped out into the hallway, and started back.

Down the hallway, down a set of stairs…

“You know, it just occurred to me,” said Fezzik, “don’t we look like robbers?”

Vizzini gave his an almost disbelieving look.

“We’re _supposed_ to look like assassins.”

“I know,” Fezzik responded hurriedly, “but won’t they think it’s strange? I didn’t think assassins were supposed to steal things.”

“The more criminal we appear, the better,” interjected their employer, and-

The group stopped, as a young woman, seemingly a servant of some description, had entered the hallway just as he had spoken.

She stared at them, eyes wide.

There was an instant of silence.

 _“Fezzik,”_ muttered Inigo, nudging him.

“Oh,” he said, and, reaching out, _“sorry, Miss.”_

She barely had time to make a sound before falling unconscious. It seemed that wherever the giant had placed his hand had hit something.

Fezzik brought out his other hand, and carefully laid her on the floor.

“I had hoped we would meet someone,” muttered their employer, nodding. “Now, the longer we wait, the less time we will have to escape.”

He continued leading them, pace redoubled, and in short order, they were outside again.

“Please,” he said, gesturing to the door, and Fezzik ripped dutifully ripped it off its hinges, making an unpleasant sound.

The carcass lay nearby, and it took a bit of hauling to get it into the wheelbarrow, but, that accomplished, they were off.


	5. Lowtown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prince will surely try to follow them, but before they can vanish, they need to go to Lowtown, where their employer has heard of a suitable informant.
> 
> Prince Humperdinck, however, is not the only one following them.

It was nearing daybreak as they reached the sailboat, and, as the three hired men set out preparing the ship to disembark, their employer placed himself in an unobtrusive corner.

“We will sail southwest, to Lowtown.”

He looked around to make sure they’d heard him, and, seeing agreement, leaned back. He went still and silent.

“You k _n_ ow,” said Inigo, “if that is w _h_ ere we are headed, per _h_ aps it is best if I stay in the boat.”

Vizzini gave him a look.

He shrugged, apologetically. “Some men there do not like me.”

Vizzini scoffed. “A drinking tab you didn’t pay off?”

“And a man I stabbed.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Vizzini’s smile dropped suddenly to a scowl. “Then stab him _properly_ this time.”

He bustled off to the bow, where he busied himself with making ready to depart.

Inigo seemed disgruntled, but set about his part in unmooring them, as Fezzik raised the sails.

“He seems very tired,” said Fezzik, evidently referring to their employer, who seemed to be unconscious.

“Perhaps he did not sleep.”

“Maybe.”

“I did not either.”

“Mm.”

“I _told_ you to!” said Vizzini, audibly exasperated. “Have you undone the rope yet?”

Inigo stood up, holding said rope in his hands.

The sails were up, and they were away.

…

Minutes passed, and then hours.

The distance across the channel was only a matter of some hours. At the angle they were moving, perhaps a bit longer.

The early morning sun swung its slow way overhead, giving them ample time to bundle up the dresses and other bulky valuables in something a bit less conspicuous, and passed on towards evening.

With a steady wind, caught in their sails, they were making good progress, and under the heat of the afternoon sun, they spread about the boat, recouping some of their lost rest.

…

“We should reach Lowtown within the hour,” said Vizzini, glancing up at the position of the sun.

Inigo nodded, and glanced back over the port side.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Making sure nobody’s following us.”

“That would be inconceivable.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said their employer. He’d given no sign that he was awake, yet his voice lacked any telltale markers of sleep. “The Prince will come after you, and if you are not careful, you _will_ be hanged.”

“All that concern for our necks, Eminence, yet none for your own.”

Their employer seemed impassive about the implication.

“Stop doing that,” he said, turning back to Inigo, who was staring off to the left.

“You’re sure nobody’s following us?”

“As I told you, it would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways, inconceivable. No one in Gilder knows what we’ve done, and no one in Florin could have gotten here so fast. Out of curiosity, why do you ask?”

“No reason. It’s only, I just happened to look, and something is there.”

“What?”

They turned, and there, far behind them, on the port side, was a boat, hardly the size of theirs. It was moving fast, and seemed to be coming directly for them.

“Probably just a local fisherman,” said Vizzini, “bringing home his haul for the day.”

But it didn’t look like a fishing ship. The sail was dark, and at the helm, barely visible at this distance, was a figure in black.

And, there again, it seemed to be coming for them…

Vizzini seemed as unconvinced as the rest of them.

He waved a hand dismissively.

“Regardless! He’s far behind us, and there’s only one of him.”

He stepped back to the helm, and adjusted the sails.

…

Lowtown slowly hoved into sight, and behind them, that same boat followed them, closing in with a grim inevitability. They could see that he was wearing a mask, now, but it didn’t seem like he’d so much as moved where he sat. It seemed almost as if some revenant was after them.

Ahead of them, the sound of the docks grew louder, filled with bustle, despite its diminutive size.

Not a word exchanged, they all prepared to disembark.

Inigo glanced behind, one more time.

The boat bumped lightly into the mooring, and a man, evidently a dock worker, stepped up to greet them.

“State your business,” he said, audibly disinterested.

“We are but poor circus performers, looking for a place to work” said Vizzini, withdrawing a few coins, and passing them over.

“I’m afraid I’ll need-“ He paused, and looked down, jangling the coins in his hand. His mouth moved silently, as if counting. He looked back up at them, and smiled. “My apologies. Poor circus performers, looking for a place to work. Staying long?”

“No,” said their employer, stepping overboard, as Inigo tied the ropes back up, “But I need to know where to find the Coppered Coin Inn.”

The man raised his eyebrows, then nodded in recognition. “It’s just up the road. Left at the square. Now… Very good. I’ll mark you for overnight, then. Shall I mark down a name?”

“The Sicilian Troupe,” said Vizzini, with barely a moment’s hesitation.

“Very good,” said the man, “enjoy your time in Lowtown. You’ll owe extra fees if your boat is here tomorrow at sundown, and so on, and so on,” he waved his hand, concluding the contract.

“It won’t be,” said their employer, simply.

He nodded, and started walking away.

“Carry that,” said Vizzini, gesturing at Fezzik and then the bundle of minor valuables.

“We get the information first,” said their employer.

“ _Obviously,_ ” said Vizzini, though something in his expression implied that he was annoyed by the command.

They set off, leaving the docks quickly. Soon, the smell of fish was masked by the poor, yet bustling atmosphere of the town proper. There weren’t a great many businesses, but those that there were seemed to be doing good business today.

And yet, behind the bustle, there were silent men, leaning lazily against walls, as if watching for their next mark, and sometimes the shopkeepers would meet one of their eyes, and there would be a hungry glint in their smile.

They found what seemed to be the main square, and, as directed, turned left.

And, as they continued, the streets grew quieter, less business, and more-

“Hey!” came a rough voice from behind them. “Spaniard!”

They paused, and turned.

“ _H_ ello?”

A man stepped from a side-alley, drawing a sword.

“You should have known better than to show your face around here again!”


	6. A Test of Skill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inigo finds himself surrounded by men with swords.

Inigo sighed, and shook his head.

He’d been exceptionally drunk the last time he’d been here, and this man, assuming it was the same one, hadn’t exactly been a challenge even then. And he only had five fingers on his right hand.

Vizzini scoffed.

“Catch up when you’re done.”

He nodded, and heard the retreating footsteps of his associates.

Logically, it was probably a poor choice to duel in the streets, but… Well. The streets weren’t exactly packed, and it would be over quickly enough _anyway._

He drew his sword.

The man drew his.

“It’s been a while,” the man said, scowling, “but you should’ve known I’d know your face anywhere.”

Inigo shrugged.

“Shall we begin?”

The man barked a laugh. “Not just yet.” There was the sound of footsteps behind him.

He spun, and… Three more men were behind him, and, as he turned back, four more men had joined the first.

He was surrounded… three, then five more… 8 to 1…

He sighed, taking stock of them. They were all armed, but none of them stood like they were especially well trained. They _did_ have him surrounded, though.

“Come on, then, Spaniard,” the man jeered.

“You seem very well prepared for this,” he said.

The man laughed. “Oh, we were looking for our next mark anyway. And then _you_ showed up.”

He nodded.

These eight men in a row would have been easy. Even the eight of them in _front_ of him… All eight _surrounding_ him?

He’d need to be quick.

“So… W _h_ o first?”

Nobody said a word, but-

Footsteps behind him.

He spun, blade already coming up to parry.

The blades clashed, and he was already coming to strike, as-

Some fencer’s instinct told him to keep turning, another man now in front of him, a lunge redirected.

Amateurish at best.

They came at him quickly, reckless abandon and numbers pulling honed skill into a standstill. With expert finesse, he managed to tear a gash across one man’s chest, but what he _needed_ was to make it outside of the ring, and that aim still eluded him.

From the outside, he seemed like nothing so much as a cloud of steel, sword flashing and blurring like falling coins. He barely felt the pain as a blade skimmed across him, leaving a thin sliver of red. What he _did_ feel, though. A brilliant defense had left one of the men vulnerable to a deadly riposte, and he didn’t even think before lunging forward…

His instincts had been honed in countless duels, to take any opening, and this one was perfect. Yet, even so, he knew where the other men had to be; most of them would be recoiling, their own sloppy attempts suitably repelled, but directly behind him… even as his sword landed perfectly in the man’s chest, he could feel the blade approaching from behind.

He was out of position. He couldn’t turn in time, and dropping to the ground would never save him against men as disreputable as these.

He pulled away, turning, hoping that perhaps he had misjudged the man behind him, and he had a second more, but-

There was a _clang,_ and, as he finally managed to turn around, he found, behind him…

There was a masked man in black, a sword in his hand, still after a motion, and, past him, the man who had been about to stab him was staggering backwards, reeling.

 _“Eight men to one? Disgraceful,”_ said the man in black, shaking his head. “And to attack your enemy while his back is turned…”

Inigo turned to face the other way again, and found, to his surprise, that the other man’s sudden appearance seemed to have rattled his attackers.

A few of them glanced nervously at each other.

The man behind him laughed, almost derisively.

“Fleeing will grant you no clemency. Stand or die.”

The words sank in, and the eight men, or… Well, seven, now, seemed shaken, but there was a sense of building resolve, and then…

The four before him charged at once, and this time, with the presence of the man at his back, Inigo could afford them his full attention. He grinned.

They fought with a desperate resolve, blades flying thick and deadly, but Inigo was faster still, and another man fell before their first clash even had a chance to finish. He pressed forward, slashing another man across the chest, and was forced, for a moment, to the defense, as-

One of the men, seemingly uncowed by the man in black’s harsh words about backstabbing, tried to slip past, going _around_ Inigo.

He leapt over, knocking the stab aside, and was about to return the maneuver, as-

There was a flicker of silver, and he spun, blocking a strike that had only barely been visible in his own peripheral vision. Two of the men were now out of his sight, but another was in his view, and as he turned, he felt the man behind him match the motion, spinning with him so that he could handle the ones Inigo had lost.

The new men he could see seemed, if anything, even _more_ unnerved than the ones on his original side, and they fell easily, the first after Inigo broke his stance during a sloppy assault, and the other to a dizzying series of feints that he barely seemed to understand, leaving him wide open.

Inigo, as the last one fell, spun around, ready to join the side of the man in black, but… The man was standing there, the last of his own enemies sinking, slowly, to the ground.

He spun around, clearly with much the same intent as Inigo had had, and, for a second, they stood there, their blades pointed past each other.

They looked at each other, and each took a moment to examine, first, the slain foes of the other, and then the man himself.

Inigo stepped back, and withdrew a cloth from a pocket. He began wiping down his blade.

It seemed, somehow, as if he was missing something…

Ah, yes.

“Thank you,” he said.

“It was a pleasure,” said the man, bowing slightly, before withdrawing a cloth of his own.

Inigo looked around at the fallen bodies.

“Per _h_ aps we should leave,” he said.

The other man shrugged. “I suppose. I doubt anyone will miss a set of ruffians in this town.”

“Mm,” said Inigo, nodding. He turned, and started walking after where his associates had gone.

As his thoughts slowly returned to him, the ones, that is, that were not entirely occupied with fencing, he slowly considered the man’s appearance. A black mask, and black clothes. He moved with a certain grace, as if…

“ _H_ ave we met before?” he said, pointing at the man.

“I don’t believe so,” said the man. “Why, do I seem familiar?”

He _did._ He looked a great deal like the man who had been following them. That should have worried Inigo.

Then again, he had just saved his life. He had earned, if not trust, then at least a certain degree of respect.

Inigo shrugged.

“So,” said the man, “are you going anywhere particular?”

Inigo nodded. “There is an inn.”

“I see. And you are there on business.”

Inigo nodded. “There is a man there that knows where the Revenge is.”

The man looked over sharply. “And why would you want to know that?”

Inigo considered.

“I do not.” he said. “But Vizzini does.”

“The man you work for?”

“Yes. And the man _he_ is working for wants to know so that he can find Roberts.”

“I see,” said the man. “A curious business. The Dread Pirate Roberts is not known for his compassion towards those who seek him out.”

Inigo shrugged.

“And you are to kill him?”

“I do not think so. They would have told me.”

“Is he to be killed?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t know?”

Inigo shook his head.

“Hm,” said the man in black. He looked over at Inigo, a question in his eyes, but then, he looked away again, not saying a word.

“Shall I buy you a drink for your help?” said Inigo.

The man looked over.

He shrugged. “Perhaps. If I know these streets as well as I should, then you are going to the Coppered Coin, yes?”

Inigo nodded.

“Then I may be back later.”

“Of course,” said Inigo.

Ahead of them, the shape on one of the signs resolved itself into a circle, the greater part of it a dull orange, with a crudely drawn face on it. At the top right of it, however, a jagged edge pieced off a bit of the circle where bright gold shone through.

The man in black nodded, though Inigo had already gathered what he was looking at.

“Later, then,” said the man, and turned off, down a side alley.

Inigo opened his mouth to offer some farewell, but he was already gone.

He stared after where he’d been, shrugged, and then turned back to the inn.

He frowned.

There was a body, lying on the road outside, and, even as he watched, another flew out after him.

Inside, he could _just_ make out the sounds of a scuffle.

He stepped forward, a bit more urgently now.

As he made it to the door, one more man came flying out, and there, filling the doorway, was Fezzik.

“Oh! Hello,” he said, smiling.


	7. Ryan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sicilian Troupe, at least those who aren't being surrounded by men with swords, enter the Coppered Coin, and try to weasel some information out of their informant.  
> Fezzik is distracted.

“We are looking for a man named Ryan,” said their employer, as they walked on. “A retired pirate, they say. He should be at a table near the bar.”

“A heavy drinker in _deed_ if he’s there at this hour,” said Vizzini.

Fezzik nodded solemnly, behind them.

They walked in silence, until, coming to the sign, they stopped.

“After you?” said Vizzini, gesturing.

Their employer nodded, and entered.

The inside of the Coppered Coin was dingy and dark, and largely empty, which was no great surprise considering that it was early afternoon. It seemed it was frequented by a disreputable sort, no surprise if it held someone who knew where to find a notorious pirate.

They attracted a few curious stares as they entered, and a few that seemed to be sizing them up to have their pockets picked.

Their employer paid no mind to any of them, eyes catching almost immediately on a man, reclining near the bar. He had a mug in front of him, and, as they watched, he knocked back another swig of whatever was inside it.

They approached.

“Ryan?”

He turned, looking back at them, seemingly only a bit tipsy.

He grinned.

“Who’s asking?” His voice came out smooth and roguish.

“Businessmen,” said Vizzini.

He looked them up and down.

“I see. And you’ve come looking for me.”

“We have,” said their employer.

“Hah!” he said, “Come for a drink, maybe?” He waved a hand, as if dismissing the idea. “Sit down.”

Except for Fezzik, who wouldn’t have fit in the chairs, they did as requested.

“Now I don’t think I’ve heard of you before, and I know most people around here. Businessmen you say, well, as long as that doesn’t mean tax collectors.”

Vizzini laughed, though it seemed more out of social obligation than amusement. “Not remotely. You see, we have heard that _you_ know where to find the pirate ship Revenge.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows.

“Could be. Why do you want to know?”

“My… Associate has business to conduct with the captain.”

Ryan looked over, took in the mask, and the clothing.

“I suppose you might. What’s it to be, then? Assassination? Revenge?”

“A duel.”

He nodded, approvingly. “You wouldn’t be the first to try, but you _would_ be the first to succeed. Roberts makes a great many enemies,” he grinned, “but most of them don’t last very long.”

“So then,” said Vizzini, “do you, in fact, know where he is?”

Ryan shrugged his shoulders. “Well…”

“Ey,” came a slurred, annoyed voice from over his shoulder. Ryan rolled his eyes. “You three coming in here to cause _trouble?”_

“No more trouble than you cause on a daily basis.”

“I _pay my tab,”_ said the man, affronted, and slurring more than before.

 _“Eventually,”_ muttered Ryan, just loud enough for the man to hear him.

“That’s not very nice,” rumbled Fezzik. Then, his hand flashed out, and there was a _smack,_ as he caught the drunken man’s fist, mere inches from Ryan. “That’s not very nice either.”

The man reeled back, and stared up at Fezzik.

 _“You,”_ he slurred, _“trying to… Scare me.”_ He groaned, and leveled a punch at Fezzik’s chest.

It did nothing.

Ryan rolled his eyes.

“So, anyway,” he said, “you still didn’t tell me; you wanted to hunt down Roberts to duel him. I understand, of course, but you didn’t say why. Revenge?”

“My _associate,_ ” said Vizzini, “is working on orders from an employer who wished to stay nameless.”

“Hm. Shame. Sounds like your average run-of-the-mill assassin, then. Though… Well, I can appreciate the open approach. Tell me,” he turned, “if _you_ die in the attempt, will your employer just send another? Should I be looking forward to a whole slew of people like you?”

“No.”

“Huh. That’s some relief, then.” He took a swig of his drink.

There was a shout from behind him, as one of the half-dozen men who had drunkenly started attacking Fezzik took a swing at him.

“Though, I suppose you haven’t told me why _your_ employer wants him dead.”

“Someone he killed.”

Ryan nodded.

“That’ll do it.”

There was a _thud_ from behind them, as one of the men staggered and hit the floor.

“Still doesn’t mean I’m going to _tell_ you anything, but it certainly does explain why you’re here.”

Vizzini raised his eyebrows.

“I’d ask you to reconsider.”

“Why?”

“Oh, any number of reasons,” said Vizzini, leaning forward. “Just look behind you.”

“Your giant, yes,” he said, shrugging. “Prodigious size has no intrinsic merit.”

Vizzini shrugged. “And my associate here is a renowned duelist.”

He glanced over, visibly doubtful.

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Renowned is the wrong word. Trained.”

He nodded. “I’d believe that. Though, I myself have fought in a number of duels. I’ve never lost one that mattered.”

“You only need to lose one,” said Vizzini.

“And you wouldn’t kill me if I did,” said Ryan, unimpressed, “because then you wouldn’t know where to look.”

“Perhaps we wouldn’t kill you, but Roberts would.”

He blinked, looking over from Vizzini.

“I don’t follow.”

“If Roberts hears that you kept him from an honorable duel, I have little doubt he’ll be displeased.”

He shrugged. “Displeased, maybe, but he wouldn’t kill me over it.”

“He has few reservations about killing.”

“True. But he wouldn’t kill _me.”_

“Colleagues, then?” said Vizzini, sharply.

Ryan didn’t respond.

“Then, a new plan,” said Vizzini. “We take you as a hostage, and force Roberts to come to us.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, that might work. Still means you need some way to get the word out to him, though. Not easy if you don’t know where he is.”

“Are you trying to slow us down, or offer advice?”

He looked over again.

“Neither, really. I’m mostly just bored.”

There was a long silence, and Ryan rolled his eyes.

He sighed. “Alright, fine. The Revenge set out to the northwest. But, no guarantees Roberts will be there.”

“And why is that?” asked Vizzini, as the door to the bar clattered open, and one of the men was bodily thrown out.

“Because he said he had business to attend to alone. Some woman in Florin he wanted to check in on.”

“He was in Florin?” said their employer, eyes flashing.

“He said something about a royal wedding. I don’t recall the details.”

Vizzini looked over, carefully hiding any trace of nerves. His employer’s face was similarly still.

“Oh, you came from there?”

A solemn nod.

“Well, I don’t know how long he was planning to stay, so you might still be able to catch him, if you hurry back.”

He scanned their faces, and his expression suddenly seemed much more _shrewd_ than it had before.

“On the run, then? In trouble with the law?”

There was a long pause, and he shrugged. “Well, who isn’t, in this bar?” He laughed aloud.

There was a loud thud as one more person was suddenly not in the bar.

“Well, anyway. Best odds are that he’s still off doing whatever it was in Florin. Seemed like it was going to take him a few days. Then, I think the Revenge was going to head southwest. Lots of rich coastline that way, and it’s a good time of year for it.”

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

Ryan rolled his eyes.

“You got a map?”

Vizzini extracted one.

“Something to write with?”

Likewise.

Ryan set about marking the likely position of the Revenge, as Fezzik tossed out another drunken man.

 _“Oh! Hello,”_ he said, stepping aside to let Inigo in.

“It’s been, _a pleasure,_ doing business with you,” said Vizzini, standing up.

He stepped past the tables, gesturing first at Fezzik, then at the bundle of valuables he’d left aside for a moment.

“Come on,” he said, and stepped out the door.

Inigo blinked, having barely entered the room, and then shrugged.

The three hired men left the room.

There was a long silence, as Ryan looked back at the Assassin, who still hadn’t stood up.

“So… I suppose they’re off on business, then?”

He nodded.

“Be back soon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah.” He nodded his head side to side. “Well, in the meantime… Drinks on me?”


	8. Chapter 8

She didn’t _want_ to drink with a man who had ties to Roberts, nor was she sure she could entirely trust him. That said… Just as much as there was a chance he wanted to poison her, it was possible he was still uncertain about her. If he was curious, she might be able to use that to get more details out of him.

_A ‘royal wedding’ in Florin, and a woman he wanted to speak to. Had Roberts wanted something with her, perhaps to kidnap her and hold her for ransom? But then… Roberts had already accumulated far more wealth than he would ever need._

A pair of pints were set in front of them; Ryan raised his, and started drinking.

Seconds passed in silence, and Buttercup took a cautious sip. The drink was clearly alcoholic but seemed to be of surprisingly good quality, considering its surroundings.

“You don’t look like an assassin,” said Ryan.

She kept her face still.

“Oh?”

“People don’t dress like that when all they want is to kill someone. You wouldn’t offer to duel in the first place if all you wanted is to kill him. You’d wait until he was here, and stab him in the night. Of course, with a good challenge, you won’t have to worry about getting the _chance_ to kill him, but you’d still have a better chance with a dagger in the dark.” The words came out altogether too conversationally.

She kept her face blank.

“So you have a message for him, don’t you?”

“And what if I do?”

“I was just curious,” he said, shrugging. “Something private, no doubt, and, by the way you say that, it must also be personal. Your associate talked about an employer, but there isn’t one.”

She shook her head, though it hadn’t been a question.

“Didn’t think so. So you’re out for blood, but why… Hmm…” He sized her up. “Revenge, I’d assume.”

She nodded.

“I assumed. Someone he killed? A brother, perhaps? Or, then again, an old lover.”

“A farm boy.”

Ryan’s brow furrowed, for a second, and his mouth moved, silently. Then he shrugged, leaning back. “The Revenge sees plenty of those. Roberts probably won’t even remember the one you’re thinking of. There are always plenty of young men off to seek their fortunes, always searching for something better.” He looked down, seemed to consider something, and then cocked his head. “But, they usually don’t last long. You put a sword to their throat and it’s just an ‘as you wish,’ and they’re already dead.”

The words felt like a punch to the gut, and she wasn’t quite able to keep her face steady.

Ryan didn’t seem to notice the effect, just sighing, and leaning back in his chair. “Well… Who knows, maybe he’ll remember this one.”

He couldn’t have known about… No. It had to be a coincidence.

“What did he want in Florin? A killing of his own? A kidnapping?”

One of Ryan’s fingers tapped on the table, as if he was considering his next words. Then, he leaned forward.

“Oh, like I say, just a woman he used to know. Someone from… oh… five years ago? She said she’d wait for him, but word has it she’s getting married.”

Ryan leaned back, and looked steadily at her.

Silently, internally, the words sank in. _Five years. Royal wedding. Said she’d wait._

Ryan’s eyes were boring a hole into her, and to Buttercup, it sounded like nothing so much as Westley trying to come back to her, except…

Except it was Roberts…

But… But Westley _couldn’t_ be Roberts. She’d known him for far too long for that, and the idea that Roberts would have pretended to be a farm boy for years was… _preposterous_.

Ryan chuckled, but when he spoke, his voice had the same even tone as before.

“Well, anyway. I’m probably not supposed to tell people about his doings and so on. I’d ask you not go sharing that sort of story around.”

“Of course.”

“Good! And, in exchange, if he ends up here again before you find him, I’ll be sure to let him know that there’s an assassin who seems to be working in good faith to kill him. That should give you the time you need to share your message with him _before_ you start fighting. I wouldn’t want it to go unheard, any more than you do. It seems an admirable enough business.”

There was a long, long silence.

“Now!” said Ryan, “Another drink? On me?”

For a second, she wanted to ask where he got the money to spend his days in a tavern, but… Well, in this part of town, that was probably a bad question.

She nodded, silently.

“Excellent!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Man In Black, or, as he secretly is, The Dread Pirate Roberts (big surprise) gathers intel.

So. They had come here, of all places. Really, that shouldn’t have been a great surprise; Gilder wasn’t in the Prince’s jurisdiction, and Lowtown was notorious for its criminal population; it was the perfect place to try to disappear.

The problem with that plan was _him._ He didn’t care about borders, and he _certainly_ knew his way around this town.

Earlier in the day, he would have been all too pleased to simply walk into the Coppered Coin and handled the problem directly, but…

That Spaniard; he would bet _money_ that he was part of the same crew that had… Killed? Taken?

Done _something_ with _her_.

Gone after _her_ , then after him.

Why? Not just why _her_ , and not just why _him_ (He could think of any number of reasons someone might want _him_ dead) but why _both_ of them?

It sounded as if someone knew his secret, but that was impossible.

The Spaniard had been a masterful fencer, but _he_ was not the one who would be doing the killing. Poison, then? Or perhaps his employer didn’t simply care about _killing_ him, but about doing it personally. Or… It was _possible_ that he was employed by a better swordsman than himself, though doubtful.

And still, there had been no sign of her; there had been a hefty, rolled up carpet, that he’d thought might conceal a captive, but he’d followed them, seen them sell the goods within; it hadn’t been her.

The bed had been bloodied, and the hair scattered, but they hadn’t killed her. Why? He’d _found_ the pig carcass, wheeled away and mangled, and it seemed that they’d faked her death, _but why?_

The best explanation he could find was that they’d wanted to buy themselves time to get away before they offered a ransom, make her survival the more potent as a bargaining tool.

And they didn’t seem to _have_ her. No body, no captive.

Sitting in the alley, waiting for the last patrons of the coin to leave, The Dread Pirate Roberts couldn’t help thinking that there was something he had to be missing. He’d seen them on their boat, seen them leave, and she hadn’t walked with them, nor been concealed among them. Yet where could they have left her body that he wouldn’t have seen?

He reached a hand up and idly scratched under his mask.

Still, if they’d come looking for a man that knew where he was, they’d have spoken to Ryan, and he would certainly know which of them he’d need to speak to.

The sun had gone down, and, as he listened, a drunk man staggered back down the street.

That had to be most of them, didn’t it?

He stood, and stepped out of the alley.

Lowtown by night was a frightful sight to most, but most people weren’t the Dread Pirate Roberts.

He stepped into the Coin.

As his eyes acclimated to the light, he saw…

Ryan laughed loudly, still sitting at the bar, next to…

Ah, the Spaniard from earlier.

“So he is Roberts,” he slurred, gesturing at the bartender, “but he is no’ the pirate?”

“Quite so!” said Ryan, slapping a hand on the counter, “they say it’s why he doesn’t fear Roberts!” his voice dropped down, and he whispered theatrically, “a name is a powerful thing.”

“Aaaahhh,” he said, waggling a finger, “ _yes,_ yes.”

“I don’t fear him because everyone needs somewhere to drink,” said Roberts, wiping down the bar, “and he pays his tab better than most of the lummox’s ‘t come in here.”

“I fear that means I am not doing my job properly,” he said, and the three of them turned to look at him, “should I perhaps offer you something more to fear?”

The _not dread pirate_ Roberts grimaced, “didn’t mean it like that, Sir. Not saying you couldn’t burn this whole place down, jus’ ‘t I don’t expect it of you every time you come up the road.”

“Ah, then I think we understand each other properly.”

The Spaniard frowned. “You are Roberts?”

He nodded.

There was a long moment as he stared into the middle distance, the idea seeming to work its way through his inebriated mind.

“Hoh,” he said, one hand working its way down to his sword

“Any business I have can wait until tomorrow,” he said, putting a hand up in a gesture of peace.

The Spaniard nodded, and, after a second, returned to his mug.

The bartender looked between the three of them.

“Now, I’m afraid I _must_ cut you off here. Any more drink, and I will have to carry you to your room myself.”

The Spaniard gave an annoyed looked, but shrugged, downed the last of his drink, smacked it down on the table, and stood up.

As he staggered away, Ryan raised a glass in his direction, before downing the last of it.

“A good man, that,” he said, with a tipsy smile, “though,” and his voice dropped to a whisper, “no head for liquor. Downs what he’s given before he’s had a chance to taste it.”

“I see.”

“’pparently he’s on a revenge mission. Some man, six fingers, killed his father. He’s got the whole thing planned out. Kept saying it, too, think he’s got it pretty stuck in his head.”

“I see.” _Ryan would tire himself out eventually._

“ _Hhkello,_ ” said Ryan, in an imitation of the man’s accent, “my name is _Inigo Montoya… You kill my father. Prepare to die.”_ He paused. “It’s probably ‘killed’ though, and it just doesn’t sound like it because of the accent.”

“I have no doubt.”

There was a long silence.

“Oh! But you’ll be here about the people who want to kill you.”

“Yes.”

“Good! Good, good, good.” Ryan sighed. “They want to kill you.”

“I know.”

“And… And…” He focused. “Their boss. Eh- Employer. The one in the red… All drapey clothes and, uh… A mask. Like yours! But red, and you can still see the hair. That’s the one ‘t wants to kill you.”

“I see.”

“And…” He frowned. “Don’ fight until you’ve had a chance to talk. That’s important. There’s a message you’ll want to hear.”

“Not one you can tell me?”

“No! Person’l. Listen close. ‘N don’t kill too quick, either.”

The Dread Pirate Roberts looked over at the barkeeper, who was studiously failing to hear a word they said, then back at the older man.

“Ryan. She was gone when I arrived. They took her, or killed her. Do you know where she is?”

Ryan pursed his lips, and seemed to consider. Then, he shook his head.

“Jus’… Listen close. Reckon they might give it away if you do.”

Roberts squinted at him, trying to glean some insight. It seemed like he _had_ to know something, but…

His face, muddled slightly by alcohol, wrinkled by age, and above all, practiced in blankness, gave nothing more away.

“I see. I suppose I’ll return in the morning.”

“ _Early_ ,” said Ryan. “Think they’re leaving ‘round… early.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“N’ probl’m, cab’n boy,” he slurred, “Sleep well… ’ll most likely… Ah…” He shook his head. “You know.”

“I do.”

And with that, he vanished into the night.

He’d need to wake early, the sooner he was asleep, the better.


	10. The Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roberts faces his assassin in single combat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here from the Tumblr post, you may notice that a lot of dialogue and narration is cribbed directly from there, but simply set in the new location with the new characters. What can I say? I liked a lot of what I already had, but as I bashed out the plot, it didn't really work with what I'd designed.

“ _Well,”_ said Inigo, shrugging, “I my _s_ elf am no stranger to murder plots. I just don’t know that the _f_ our of us can fight an entire crew of pirates.”

Vizzini scoffed, adjusting his coin purse. “Obviously not. They say Roberts is a bloodthirsty pirate, but too honorable for his own good. Our employer will simply challenge him to a duel.” He glanced over to the stairs, where their employer still hadn’t come down from their rest. Seemingly satisfied that he wouldn’t be heard, he added in an undertone “ _and, since we’ve been paid in advance, the outcome matters little.”_

“But don’t they kill everyone they meet?” said Fezzik.

“Obviously not,” scoffed Vizzini, “or no one would know they existed. Besides, I’m sure that, if their captain wins, they’ll be _all too happy_ to have us go and spread the story of his immense skill.”

“W _h_ en you say skill...” said Inigo, leaning forward.

“They say he’s an accomplished duelist. Scourge of the seas? Known to have slain 100 men in single combat!?” Vizzini turned away in disgust at his evident lack of knowledge.

Inigo nodded his head to either side, trying to tally up his own numbers.

“Regardless,” said Vizzini, waving off the line of conversation, “ _that_ is a problem we will only face later. For now, _I_ will make certain that we are free to leave. You remind him that it was _his_ idea to leave early, and if he’s not down in ten minutes, wake him up.”

Inigo shrugged.

Vizzini slapped out a hand at the cup he was holding, spilling some of the contents. _“And stay sober!_ I don’t care _who’s_ paying for it.”

There was a snort, and Vizzini shot a derisive look over at Ryan, who had somehow managed to already be there when they’d come down, seeming none the worse for his drinking the previous night.

Vizzini shook his head in disgust, and left.

\--

Sleep had been difficult to come by; strange, worrying thoughts rang in her head through the night, coupled with the excitement of how far they’d already come. She might be only a few days from finally confronting Roberts, after all this time. She made sure her sword was properly affixed, and that her mask was properly tied.

_Good._

She stepped from the door, and…

A frown crossed her face; why was it so quiet? Only a few seconds ago, she could hear the sounds of the freshly opened tavern from downstairs, yet now…

She paused, at the railing of the balcony that overlooked the tables and bar.

There was a man in black, who seemed to have become the focus of the whole tavern’s attention. As she watched, he looked slowly around, eyes, somewhat hidden though they were by his mask, scanning the faces.

She stepped back, and started down the steps, hand going to her sword.

As she made her way slowly down, she could just make out a voice, though she couldn’t quite tell what it was saying.

She turned the corner, and, abruptly, there was silence again.

“Well then,” said the Man in Black, “I suppose you are the one looking for me.”

Her eyes narrowed. _That voice was…. But how… Surely it wasn’t even possible that…_

“Yes?” He said in response to her silence, “The red clothing, the sword, the mask.”

“That depends,” she said, “who are you?”

He gave a cocky grin, and bowed. “I am the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“Then yes,” she said, “I have been looking for you.”

He straightened.

“And why is that?”

“I came to duel you.”

“Naturally.”

“And you accept?”

“Of course!” he said, throwing his arms out, as if the question surprised him. “What self-respecting legend of the seas can turn down an offer to duel?” That drew a laugh from the surrounding patrons. “And it is to be to the death?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps I’ve simply come to test your mettle.”

He clicked his tongue, looking askance. “Now, that’s no way to enter a fight. If the terms aren’t set, you won’t know when you’ve won.”

“To the death!” shouted a patron at one of the tables, prompting a round of laughter; they knew entertainment when they saw it.

“Very well,” he said, spinning to face they man who had shouted, “I trust you already have your sword?”

The room went silent.

“No? Then by all means, remind me when you have acquired one.”

He turned back to face her.

“As for you. I have heard the word ‘assassin’ used too many times to believe that you will spare my life if given the chance.”

“Then fight me to the death.”

“Very well,” he said, shrugging. He smoothly pulled his sword from its sheath.

_“Fezzik, did you see the motion of the arm? The way he set his stance?”_

_“No.”_

_“He is very well trained.”_

_“Oh.”_

“Now,” he said, “you know who I am, but I must admit, I am curious who _you_ are. I was told to listen to what you had to say before I killed you, yet as I listen to you, I do not know what I was meant to hear.”

“I _do_ know who you are,” she responded, the words a perfect match for her sword, which was suddenly aimed straight at his chest. He seemed, for a moment, taken aback by his vehemence. “And if you do not know who I am, then perhaps you will have to continue wondering.”

_Perhaps she was lying. Perhaps the similarities were the lies her memory told to her, but with every word he spoke, she could feel the leaden certainty descend upon her about who was behind that mask, however impossible it was._

_It had to be him. Surely._

_The very thought made her heart want to soar, made her body seem light, as if it were that of some bird that might at any moment fly away._

_Yet the same rage was still there._

_Whether this man was Westley or not, he had still taken her love from her, and the burning fury that had burned in her chest for three years could not be satiated so easily._

_\--_

“Very well,” said Roberts, “so be it.”

Inigo stared intently at the two of them, and silently brought his cup back to his lips; truly, it was a fine vintage, alcoholic enough to scorch the throat as it went down, yet fine enough of flavor for all that.

Their employer struck first, with a quick jab, and he paused, midway through pouring the drink down his throat.

A series of lightning blocks from Roberts, that nonetheless only narrowly managed to deflect his employers strikes.

He gulped the liquid fire down.

“Fezzik do you see the motion of the feet? If it is too slow, he would lose his balance in an instant.”

“Which one.”

A clash that could easily have meant defeat for either of them.

“Both of them.”

He hadn’t gotten a chance to see how Roberts fought before, but it was on full display today. He’d have wagered that on a good day he could have defeated them, but it would be a hard-fought battle.

“They’re good, then?”

_“Oh, Fezzik, if you could see it as I do.”_

Roberts’ deadly offensive, his response to a momentary lull, seemed for a second to splinter, and then fracture back on itself, a pair of thunderous _clangs_ seeming almost to disarm him.

 _“The entire stance was a feint!”_ he cried out, the words slightly slurred, as he blindly held out his cup for a refill. “Tulis, flowing into a high lunge rather than a low slash!”

\--

“I must admit, it’s off-putting to face an enemy who wears a mask,” he said, almost conversational as the fight roved across through the tavern, patrons diving out of the way, only to watch from the floor, as they came near. “Is it an acid burn, or do you simply prefer to keep your identity a secret.”

 _“I have as much reason to keep my identity a secret as you do,”_ came the hissed response.

_He didn’t know who this man was, but he seemed strangely confident, and…_

“You did seem quite suspicious of something,” he said, “though I’m afraid I don’t know of what.”

 _“I know who you were.”_ The words were accompanied by a set of vicious slashes the drove him up onto the lower set of steps, the perfect shift of his technique prompting another excited cry from Inigo, who seemed to have become the most popular person in the tavern. Other patrons occasionally shouted their interpretations of the fights, but it was the Spaniard they were listening to.

“I am Roberts, and no one else,” he said, but the smile on his face was forced. “You are mistaken.”

“No. Tell me, what have you been doing out here? Searching for adventure? Wealth? Fame?”

_And how did he dare to presume?_

He let the smile drop. _“I wouldn’t presume to know my business, if I were you.”_

The assassin’s assault faltered, and just in time; he’d had his back to the railings.

“No?” said the assassin, even as he was forced back, now being the one to climb the stairs backwards, “Then what? Gold? _Women?_ ”

The clatter of their swords half-deafened him, and he wished that it would finish the job, or that this assassin would simply give up and die. He kept pushing, until his foe was up against the railing.

He slashed, only narrowly missing the assassin, who slipped to the side. The motion, though neither heard it, prompted another excited outburst from Inigo, albeit an exceptionally slurred one.

It had been a losing move, though, and they both knew it. In the end, he was the better swordsman, and his opponent had only escaped into a dead end; the only escape was over the railing, jumping to the lower floor, or jumping from the window, and hoping to land safely. Both were dubious propositions, for he had no intent of giving this blathering assassin the slightest leeway to watch where he leapt.

 _“You say it like you have some reason for asking,”_ he spat. “Have you come here in the hopes of seducing me by your victory?”

_“I came here with the intent of killing the man who killed my love. But perhaps I’ll have to settle for killing a spineless, faithless coward!"_

The insult was hardly subtle, and neither his response. Both were the more effective for it, and the furious _chop,_ fueled by rage, if not by skill, finally sent his sword flying away. It soared across the tavern, almost impaling a patron’s hand, and then stuck in the table, wobbling.

He advanced, and the assassin retreated, until there was only the sword and the fall.

 _“I don’t believe I will take any satisfaction in killing you,”_ he hissed, _“only in not having to listen to you speak anymore._

 _“Then kill me and be done with it,”_ and the voice was different. Familiar. He- No. _She,_ pulled away the mask. _“Farm boy.”_

He stared at his would-be assassin.

_“You.”_

_And now what?_

Roberts had to kill this assassin.

Westley couldn’t kill Buttercup.

_There had to be a way out, but-_

\--

Inigo stared up at the end of the fight, eyes wide as he waited to see how it would truly end.

There was a mighty _slam_ as the door of the tavern was kicked open. There was the sound of fifty armored boots, and Inigo turned to look for a bare instant, as two dozen armored guards forced their way into the Coppered Coin.

His head spun back to look up at the balcony, and-

The assassin stood there, and Inigo could just make out the flash of steel coming through his back. The sword had impaled him, and-

He toppled backwards, out of the window.

“The victory!” cried Inigo, and then the drink took him, and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, that's the end, thank you all for reading, and...
> 
> Okay, that's actually not the first time I've done that gag in the chapter notes, but I think it's still funny.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wait, wait, hold it. Did Westley just stab Buttercup? Is that what the narration just said?”  
> His grandfather just chuckled. “When I started reading, that’s where I caught up.”  
> “Well that’s…” He took a breath. He’d learned, by now, that this genre usually didn’t end badly… But then again… In fanfiction, there weren’t really any rules to enforce that. “Okay.”  
> “You want me to keep going?”  
> “Keep going, I guess… Yeah.”  
> Surely his grandfather hadn’t picked one with a dark ending, right?  
> Right?

“I will thank you _not_ _to move,”_ called a collected, authoritative voice from the door.

Following the voice was a well-dressed man, who was clearly the commander of these men.

The tavern obediently fell silent, both from the commanding way he spoke, and the sudden abundance of heavily armored and armed men.

“’Scusin’ my cheek, sir,” said the bartender, “but to what do we owe the visit? My taxes should be up to date.”

“I have come to seek those responsible for what has happened to my bride-to-be,” he said, loud enough to carry to every corner of the building. “So that I may bring them to justice, and, if she let lives, to recover her as well.”

“Ah,” said the bartender.

“Now,” said the man, turning, “You. Where is your employer?”

“Yes, of course!” said Vizzini, stepping out from behind. He looked around for a moment, and-

\--

It was some ten, twenty minutes prior.

Despite what he’d said to the contrary, Vizzini wasn’t entirely at ease with the concept of seeking out Roberts. The problem, of course, was that pirates were not known for their cool rationality; there was every chance that however well he could explain to Roberts the many advantages of letting them leave unscathed (assuming his employer proved the loser in the duel) Roberts might very well simply ignore him, and kill them. If nothing else, he was a pirate; perhaps he would try to take their payment, which would chafe nearly as badly.

Now, perhaps the _intelligent_ idea would be to store his coin purse on the boat in some safe position before they went aboard, and… Yes, to keep a _smaller_ purse on himself for them to potentially steal from him. Yes, yes, that would work.

In the meantime, he just needed to keep one hand on the drawstring, and the other at the hilt of his knife; though, realistically, it might have been wiser to bring one of the other two for the simple sake of security; after all, pickpockets were _one_ danger, while simple ruffians who didn’t bother with subtlety were quite another.

Yet, as he passed into the less disreputable parts of Lowtown, the risks of being simply assaulted dwindled, and he was able to continue thinking.

Now… Roberts was one issue, of course, but the other was that he was supposed to be elsewhere. Supposedly, he was in Florin, right now. That, of course, meant that their employer would wish to return, but that would mean returning, immediately, to a place where they had been seen in the process of supposedly killing the Prince’s bride. Now, perhaps the woman would not be able to remember their faces perfectly, but certainly the _giant_ would feature heavily in whatever she _did_ remember. Wanted posters were a significant risk, but masks would draw attention. This was all without wondering where Roberts really _was_ in Florin. Though it was a small country, it was still large enough to make the concept a challenging one.

He stepped onto the docks. Now, there was the boat, and it certainly seemed to be in the same shape as it had been yesterday, which hopefully meant that the dockmaster hadn’t attempted anything underhanded in the meantime. He’d just give it a quick once-over, and then make ready to set sail, which, now that he considered it, was another reason he probably should have brought one of the other two; however imbecilic they were, an extra set of hands would have sped things up.

Add to his problems that Roberts was no doubt experienced in going undetected when he wished to be. Now, that wasn’t to say that he couldn’t be found, and certainly, Vizzini would have been only too happy to admit that if there was one man who could find a man who didn’t wish to be found, it was him. He was nearly as good at finding those who didn’t wish to be was as he was at not being found by those who wished to find him.

_“There he is! That’s the man!”_

Vizzini straightened, and looked sharply over, as-

Several dozen guards advanced on his position, surrounding the boat where it was moored.

Vizzini, for an instant, considered his chances if he were to cut the rope, and…

Nonexistent.

He looked around, doing his best to appear as the very image of polite concern.

“Hello gentlemen,” he said, “can I be of assistance?”

“The man who just directed us in your direction,” came a man’s voice, “says that you’ve come from Florin, and were remarkably unwilling to offer identifying information.”

_Seemed you couldn’t buy discretion these days. Unfortunate._

He frowned politely.

“Why, I and my crew came from the east. We are but poor, humble circus performers.”

It didn’t seem like anyone had given a command, but there was suddenly a crossbow aimed directly at him.

“My bride-to-be has been killed or abducted. Your continued survival is entirely conditional,” said the man, and at this, he stepped forward. Neatly kept hair, a set of clothes suited for a hunter or a warrior, but in a rich burgundy that as good as _said_ royalty.

He blinked, trying very carefully not to show any fear at the potential death that awaited him, “Ah,” he said, “well, naturally, when I say from the east, I mean the east, and the _north,_ of course, from Florin.”

“Hm.”

He looked around, and…

The idea clicked neatly into place.

“I was, of course, there on business. Hired by a most unscrupulous character.”

“Indeed?”

“Now, I of course, would have strenuously objected to doing anything against one such as you, however, my employer was very specific that I not know until I had agreed, and, of course, I am a man of my word, meaning that however much it pained me, I had my honor to consider.”

The man, who had to be Prince Humperdinck, seemed unimpressed.

“Now, you,” he continued, “strike me as a man of great wit and wisdom, so, naturally, it seems as if we might be able to come to an agreement.”

“Get to the point.”

“Why of course!” he said, waving his hand. “Simply, though I acted as requested, I am not the man you’re looking for. I can, however, lead you to the man who is.”

Humperdinck stared down at him, and for a moment, Vizzini felt the phantom sensation of the crossbow bolt already striking him.

“Your employer is responsible for the fate of my fiancé?”

“Certainly,” he said.

Silence.

“Leave the boat.”

“Of course.”

He did so.

“Tie his hands.”

“That will not be necessary,” he said, “as I am a man of great honor, and I would never-

He fell silent at Humperdinck’s expression.

He let them tie his hands.

“Lead the way.”

\--

_“Now,” said the man, turning, “You. Where is your employer?”_

_“Yes, of course!” said Vizzini, stepping out from behind. He looked around for a moment, and-_

_His mind was running a hundred times its normal speed._

_He only had one choice._

“I believe you are looking for me,” said Wesley, calling down towards them.

The man, the small one… What was his name, again? He was surprised. Of course he was, but Westley couldn’t afford to let him ruin this.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he said. He glanced once more from the window, where the guards had clearly surrounded the building, “after all, why did you _think_ I was your next target?”

He leaped over the railed, finding a foothold on the other side. A quick hop to one of the tables, and then to the floor.

The man’s eyes widened.

“Next target?” said the other man, who had to be Humperdinck.

He laughed. “How else would I get them to bring me your fiancé? Few people would willingly make a deal with me. Couldn’t tell you why, of course; I’ve always considered myself an honorable man.”

He could see the Sicilian’s lips moving silently.

“As I promised,” he said, “the man you were looking for. The Dread Pirate Roberts.”

Humperdinck’s eyes flashed with something; fear, maybe, or excitement. “You.”

He nodded. “Me.”

“And where _is_ she?”

_The memory of Buttercup falling from the window, the blood on his blade, rose in his mind again._

“Oh,” he said, “I see he hasn’t told you.”

Humperdinck glanced over.

He shrugged, silently cleaning the blood from his blade. “She jumped overboard on the passage over. She was eaten by shrieking eels.”

He would have expected Humperdinck to show some kind of pain or sorrow, but the only thing in his eyes was a trace of surprise, and then shrewd cunning, as of a man thinking very quickly.

“Her strong spirit was her death in the end, then,” he said. “Yet I still say that it is your fault that she is dead. And how strange that she was to be handed over in Gilder. I fear there may be more than you admit.”

Westley narrowed his eyes. Humperdinck was clearly angling for something, but…

“Then will you come peacefully? Or shall you die in battle?”

He glanced around. He was outnumbered, 10, 15 to one. Perhaps he could bottleneck them, face them like that, and then…

If Inigo were awake, Westley got the impression he might be willing to help, but… He had passed out. The giant, he didn’t know well enough to be certain.

“Ready,” said the man next to Humperdinck, almost lazily, and there was a shuffle among the men with crossbows. “Aim…”

“Hold to my mark,” said Humperdinck. He paused. “I would much rather take you alive,” he said, and Westley got the feeling that he meant it, “but,” and he shrugged, “I will make do with your corpse if I must.”

Too many crossbows.

Too much…

He let out a breath, and replaced his sword in its sheath.

“Very well,” he said. “I surrender.”


	12. Chapter 12

Vizzini silently tried to come to grips with the fact that _apparently_ his original employer had been working _for_ Roberts, or… On his behalf? Whatever the case, Roberts was not a target for assassination, but had, in fact, been the source of the payment, apparently?

He supposed that the assassin had mentioned an employer, which made sense, but _the Dread Pirate Roberts?_

The good news was that he didn’t even need to feign his prior ignorance; that was real, because, after all, how would he have known?

As they walked slowly back towards Humperdinck’s ship, he tried to piece his next step together. He _had_ his payment, which was a good first step. Now, as for getting Humperdinck to let him go, _that_ might be a problem. Maybe if he spun it as offering the same basic set of services he’d been contemplating offering to Roberts… Maybe make it clear how much credit he’d be offering to his beatific mercy, and… There might be an angle there.

He nodded, slowly, and…

Wait.

Hang on.

He was missing something.

He could do all of that, yes, but…

He looked up.

They hadn’t even _had_ the Princess, and… And they hadn’t thrown her overboard, and Roberts had never even had a chance to speak to any of them, and…

He’d recognized the lie in the moment, but now that he looked back on it, it was strangely inexplicable. Perhaps he could turn the falsehood back on Roberts, increasing his own standing in the process… Yes, that might work.

The ideas slowly clicked together, and Vizzini began to see the solution he’d known would be there. He wouldn’t even need to use his knife to escape, nor order Inigo to-

He’d left his lackeys back at the Coppered Coin.

Somewhere in the process of arresting Roberts, they’d completely slipped his mind, and Humperdinck had apparently neglected to ask.

He looked over at Humperdinck, and…

Well. He _could_ bring it up. The problem was…

No. No he’d look stupid if he did it now, and he really couldn’t afford that… Humperdinck had made it clear that his survival was conditional, so, obviously, he had to keep those conditions in his favor. He could make _new_ conditions, but he’d need to keep the reputation he’d been putting forth intact.

Besides, those two were more likely to ruin his carefully concocted arguments than to strengthen them.

\--

Humperdinck couldn’t believe his luck.

Buttercup had gone missing, yes, but that was where the bad luck had ended.

He’d apprehended her abductors, and in Gilder, no less. They could have done him no greater service if he’d _paid_ them. He could easily blame their actions on Gilder, say they’d been paid.

To kidnap her was _one_ service. To _kill_ her was perhaps even better _;_ he had meant it to happen on their wedding night, where he’d be able to twist the knife into his people ever so slightly harder, but this was almost as good.

And yet, all of that only began the full story, because he had the Dread Pirate Roberts, held captive. His hands were tied, and he had no sword.

 _He could execute the Dread Pirate Roberts, who had kidnapped his fiancé and had her brought to Gilder._ The story wrote itself…

Although, actually, he probably _would_ need someone to write the story, if only so that Roberts could sign the confession. _‘I hereby admit that I stole the Princess, Buttercup, and took her away to the shores of Gilder, where I had been paid to do so by the Gilder throne,’ et cetera, et cetera._

To execute a famous pirate would be a prestigious event, and to execute a famous pirate who had abducted and killed a beautiful princess… War would be a mere _nudge_.

To Humperdinck, the future seemed bright indeed.

\--

Neither Roberts, nor Vizzini, nor the man Vizzini had been with, had spoken to him. He had simply been left to his own devices, which would have been fine, had he remembered to bring devices of his own. As it was, he had simply stayed seated at the bar, as a few of the braver patrons began to speak to each other again.

Fezzik would never have considered himself the most perceptive, nor the wisest. He had no skill with blades like Inigo did, nor the sharp wits of Vizzini. His size, then, and his strength were his chief virtues.

Yet, even so, something _had_ caught his eye; something that, while it mattered little to him personally, he knew, nonetheless, was still very important, and specifically, it was important to-

Inigo stirred, rolling over onto one side.

“Inigo,” he rumbled, gently shaking his shoulder.

Inigo, for all he had begun moving again, had clearly drunk far too much this morning.

The bartender looked between them, and passed a bowl over.

“Make sure he doesn’t make a mess of my floor.”

Fezzik nodded, solemnly. He’d seen enough men drink too much to know what might be coming.

Inigo would have to wait until he was sober.

\--

The wheels creaked. The mule, named Brick, grumbled. The weather was hot. It was, in short, an unpleasant set of surroundings.

Yet, the man at the front of the cart had to admit that however little he enjoyed the circumstances of his employment, he was at least grateful not to be one of those lousy drunkards in the Copper Coin. Yes, they were sitting around in the middle of the day while he was out here working, but _he’d_ never had a band of heavily armored men interrupt him while he was having a meal. So, for today, at least, he had to assume that he was the victor.

Yes, of course, the men had accosted him just before he could leave with the empty barrels, but he’d made it all too clear that he was utterly unrelated to whatever they had come for, and, after a momentary deliberation, they’d let him go.

Now, he just needed to take these back to the brewery an hour or so inland, and he’d _already_ gone almost 30 minutes. He was well on his way to having his daily bread, and Brick was too.

Really, he didn’t have much to complain about.

_“Mmmghmmm.”_

He rolled his eyes.

“Hold it together back there,” he called. The wheels were always creaking, these days. He’d been saving his spare coin for the day when something inevitably broke down, but the longer that took, the longer the new wheel would last him.

“ _Mhhmmm?”_

“I said…” he said, before…

Had that wheel just responded?

There was a _different_ creak, and a thud, as of something rolling heavily over.

He looked back.

The barrels were all as upright as they’d been when he’d set out, but…

 _“Hhhagh!”_ came a sound that was now unmistakably a human voice.

He blinked. “Brick! Hold! I said _hold!_ _Hold_ , blast you.”

Brick, finally, slowed to a halt, and he jumped from his seat in the front.

It seemed he had some stowaway; a drunkard, perhaps, or some child who had thought it would be funny.

He sighed. It wasn’t exactly a grand adventure, but at least it broke up the monotony a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How very inexplicable that this random man with absolutely no relation to the main storyline became the POV character. V. Inexplicable.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! I have fooled you. Secretly, the change of perspective to a seemingly unrelated man was actually a clever narrative ruse.  
> None of you saw this coming.

There is a particular pain of the heart that comes from fighting someone you love very dearly. They say it is worse than any physical wound, and can lay low even the greatest warriors.

Buttercup, for her part, was more concerned with the state of her head.

As sound slowly began to filter in, her eyes twitched open, and she immediately shut them again; she was staring directly at the sun, and down that road lay blindness. She wondered if, perhaps, she’d _had_ her eyes open, and that was why her head felt as if it had been split open.

But…

Memories filtered back in, piecemeal.

Roberts. _Westley._

Animated by a sudden burst of energy, she rolled onto her stomach, and tried to get her hands under her.

It was at this point that something else reasserted itself.

She reached slowly down to her side, and felt slowly around.

There, a gap in the cloth, and as she pressed down—

She winced. Westley’s blade had only _just_ grazed her, but the sensation was still far from pleasant. She pulled her fingers away, and found them stained slightly red.

Well then.

_“I’m sorry,” he had whispered, his blade cutting a line of pain across her side, “this is the only way.”_

_And then, before she’d had a chance to register what he’d said, or meant, she’d been falling backwards, there had been a flash of white, and then nothing._

The only way to _what?_ He hadn’t meant to kill her, she was sure of that. He had wanted her to survive, but then…

“Oi! You! What are you doing on my cart?”

It was an older man’s voice, coming from behind her.

She groaned, and tried to make it to her elbows.

“Drunk, then, are you?” said the man, “well, better warn you I ain’t giving you a free ride back. You got on yourself, you’re getting back yourself.

“A free ride to where?” she asked.

“Hah!” he said, “ _very_ drunk, then. Lowtown, a’course. ‘Less you’re planning to head on to the brewery.”

She finally made it to her elbows, feeling the blood pound in her head as she did so.

“I didn’t… Didn’t mean to be here.”

“Oh is that so? Just accidentally hitched a ride?”

She managed to get her legs out, and began to slide down.

“Yes,” she said.

“Oh quite right you are, then,” he said, clearly not believing a word.

She felt her feet under her, and forced them not to wobble too badly as she stood up.

“Then… from Lowtown?” she said.

“Where else?” he said. “So badly hungover you don’t remember, are you?”

“I… no… No drinking,” she managed.

“Oh right,” he said, “my mistake. Young…” he stared, seeming to find her voice at odds with her clothes and appearance, “young noble like you falls asleep on a cart you don’t own, and I’m to believe there’s no drink involved.”

He scoffed, and started back towards the front of the cart.

“Lowtown’s back the other way. Best you start walking.”

There was the sound of the man climbing up to his seat, a shout, and then the cart was underway again, leaving her to stare back down the road, where, sure enough, she could just make out the impression of a town.

Well then.

It seemed there was nothing for it.

She started walking…

Every step made the blood hammer in her head, and every so often, the gash at her side would remind her of its presence.

So now what?

_Roberts was Westley._

There was no one she could kill to avenge Westley.

Now what?

She wanted to escape… Humperdinck…

He’d been there. His guards had surrounded the building.

And yet they hadn’t found her.

 _“This is the only way,”_ Westley had said.

She didn’t even know why she was returning to Lowtown; what did she even _want_ there?

What did she want… _Anywhere?_

She didn’t want to kill Westley. Murder would be pointless. 

Her thoughts, muddled and mired, chased themselves back and forth across her mind, making no headway as, over the next few hours, Lowtown slowly came into sight.

In a way, she’d done exactly what she’d meant to do; Westley’s killer was no more and she was well on her way to escaping Humperdinck’s attention. He was a dedicated hunter, but…

As she made it to the edge of the town, she paused. He wouldn’t have left, yet, would he? He’d be… He’d be looking for her, though he wouldn’t know who she was, and, when he found her…

Yet her head still ached, and where else was she to go? It was afternoon by now, and she had eaten nothing all day; her head felt foggy from that alone. The bleeding had long since stopped, but it would be safer if it were bandaged, and where was she to have that happen if she left town now?

Where could she even go?

As if in a stupor, she slowly made her way back towards the Coppered Coin. Perhaps Humperdinck would be there, and... Maybe... She didn't know.

The light of the sun made her head hammer, and the few people around her seemed all too eager to shout to each other, and…

Perhaps Humperdinck would have moved on.

Maybe Westley would still be there, and they could work out what had happened, and talk, and…

To her own mild surprise, she found herself at the door of the Coin.

There was shouting from inside.

 _“And_ h _e was_ h _ere!”_

“Come on, Inigo,” came the slow, deep response, “there’s no need to shout…”

 _“_ H _e was_ h _ere! And I…”_ A wordless sound of disappointment and distress.

She pushed through the door, and found the room all but empty.

There were… Four figures…

No. Three?

Maybe?

She blinked, trying to get her eyes to focus.

After the time on the road, everything seemed blurry, and…

“Well, well, well,” said a faintly familiar voice. “I was wondering when you’d be back. Saw you fall and thought to myself ‘Old Greylin keeps his cart right under that window.’ Just surprised it took you so long.”

“I…” she said, taking another step forward. “Where is… Where is he?”

“Well…” said the man. “About that…”

She didn’t hear what ‘about that’ he was going to say, though.

Her ears seemed to have grown suddenly deaf, and her vision slowly faded, as…

As…

She barely felt her knees hit the floor, and then, after that, she didn’t feel anything at all.


	14. Across the Channel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Humperdinck and his right hand man take stock of their situation.

Slowly, inexorably, Lowtown faded into the distance as the ship passed onto the ocean.

In the captain’s quarters, Humperdinck reclined behind the desk.

“Do you believe that he truly _is_ Roberts?” he said, not quite looking down.

“My lord?” said Count Tyrone Rugen, looking over quizzically.

“Well surely you must have heard the reputation. Why would he simply surrender?”

“And if he were not Roberts, why pretend to be,” said Rugen, nodding. “Curious.”

“Indeed.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“I suppose…” said Rugen, eventually, “I know of only one sane man who would willingly impersonate such a notorious pirate.”

“And that would be…?”

“Roberts himself.”

“I see.”

“And this man seems to be in full possession of his faculties.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose I see your point,” said Humperdinck. He looked away, out the window, where the light filtered in, “it would just be so… _embarrassing_ to have the _real_ Roberts show up again after a fake one’s execution.”

“Shameful, no doubt,” said Rugen, drily.

“Not that it would make his confession any less useful as a cause for war,” he continued, conversationally.

“No, of course not. Perhaps Gilder hired a man to impersonate him, with orders to not give up the ruse under any circumstances.”

Humperdinck snapped his fingers, expression entirely serious, “Yes! Naturally, I would expect nothing less of them.”

“Nothing _more_ , perhaps.”

Humperdinck waved off the correction.

“Well then,” Rugen continued, “would you like to send him to the Pit of Despair? The Machine should help me get a confession quite… _quickly._ ”

Humperdinck sighed. “Tyrone… I have no doubt you would acquire a confession, but I _do_ rather need a living prisoner alive to execute at the end.”

Rugen seemed like he would have been almost affronted.

“I know the limits of the body. My subjects only die when I want them to.”

Humperdinck laughed. “Yes, yes, but there isn’t very _much_ of them left. I would prefer him in a position to struggle before he is beheaded. It makes for a better show.”

“Ah.” Rugen considered. “I suppose, with ample recovery time, struggling could be arranged… You no longer have your wedding to consider, after all.”

Humperdinck was silent, for a moment.

“I had intended the execution to be part of the anniversary,” he said. “The problem, of course, is that the longer she is dead for, the less it will matter to the people of Florin.”

“I could always falsify the confession.”

Humperdinck clicked his tongues. _“Witnesses for the confession._ ”

“I have no doubt I could acquire a few poor souls to swear however I asked them to.”

“It’s the _spirit_ of the thing,” said Humperdinck, almost exasperated. “Gilder will ask for the proof, and if there’s the slightest crack in it, it will cast a shadow of illegitimacy across the whole business.”

“He could perish under interrogation, and the body simply executed again.”

“Another Cadaver Synod?” said Humperdinck. “I suppose. Still, though, we want him to struggle.”

There was a long, long silence.

“Put him under The Machine,” said Humperdinck, finally, “the confession will be of more use than the struggling. Still, if you can leave him a bit of vitality…”

“I shall work to complete the task with ample precision,” said Rugen.

“I have no doubt. That _is_ what I trust you to do.”

Rugen smiled, a calm, almost mechanical action. “It is.”

\--

Westley, for his part, sat below deck, two guards nearby, and his hands chained behind his back, and his mind was far from the thought of torture, or, rather, he had torture enough without contemplating that which might come in the future.

He had to wonder, as he sat there, whether he’d made the right choice.

Buttercup had been an exceptionally capable fighter. Between the two of them, perhaps they’d have been able to defeat the Prince’s men. Yet, thoughts of the reputation he’d been tasked to uphold as the Dread Pirate Roberts rose in his head again, as…

No. That was no good reason.

He’d been planning his escape for months, hoping, however fruitlessly, that he might find someone suitable to take his place, carefully stockpiling money in an out-of-the-way corner of Florin, so, as long as he made it free, what did his reputation matter? If they didn’t see him leave, then the disappearance of the Dread Pirate Roberts would hardly be connected to the _re_ appearance of a no-name farm boy.

Really what it had come down to, in the moment, was that he had trusted Buttercup. Perhaps, in a swordfight with 15 enemies at once, they might not make it out alive, but surely, whatever else happened, she would… She would… The anger in her eyes rose again in his memory.

He had never sent word; the risks had always been too great, the story too implausible, the words always held back before they could make it into writing. He had kept his secret close enough that it could never get out, and for three years, Westley had been dead at the hands of pirates.

If she left him to his fate, it would be no more than he deserved.

And if she didn’t… Then at least he would get the chance to apologize to her properly.

\--

Humperdinck had started sharpening a knife, grating the blade against a stone.

“And what do you make of our other prisoner?”

“The Sicilian?”

“Who else?”

“I mark him as being a man who is a step above a fool, who can therefore make any fool follow him.”

“Indeed?”

“To the uneducated, enough words can make the most foolish idea sound like the finest wisdom,” said Rugen, stroking his beard. “I think he could be useful enough.”

“For our present difficulties?”

“I suppose. He strikes me as the sort who considers dishonesty to be an art. It would take little enough convincing for him to sign any confession laid before him.”

“Roberts would be preferable.”

“I know.”

“I suppose one man’s confession, and another’s execution… Yet, then again, surely he would understand that confessing such a heinous crime has only one suitable punishment.”

“You could make him a deal.”

“To let him go free?”

Rugen shrugged. “You would be under no obligation to follow it.”

Humperdinck nodded. “To lie to a liar is hardly a sin at all.”

“Quite so, my lord,” said Rugen, a trace of a smile on his face.

“Excellent!” said Humperdinck, with one more decisive slip of the knife, which was now razor-sharp. “I do believe that this conversation has been most productive!”

“I agree.”

Humperdinck replaced the knife in its sheath, and stood up. “How long will it be until we arrive?”

“Not more than an hour, I think.”

“Good, then make ready for us to dock, and make sure both prisoners are kept suitably silent. We don’t want the surprise ruined, after all.”

“Certainly not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had me stumped for a while, because I was trying to figure out where to switch from Westley, but once I had the chapter *start* with Humperdinck and Rugen, it worked almost perfectly.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buttercup's concussion (but of course this is before concussions (Though of course they still *had* concussions, they just didn't call them that)) finally recedes.

_Lying in darkness, Buttercup found herself alone. Or… No, she wasn’t alone. There wasn’t enough of her there to_ be _alone. Occasionally, there were flickers of light, strange snatches of conversation, fading in and out, but, above all else, the endless, hammering in her head. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but it was omnipresent, and neverending._

_Thud_

_She had long since forgotten where the pain came from._

_Thud_

_It was some forgotten sin._

_Thud_

_It was someone trying to force a bargain._

_Thud_

_It was something in the way she held her head._

_Thud_

_It was a spike, driven deep._

_Thud_

_It was a mere moment from ending, if she could only…_

She winced, the pain coming sharply, and…

Her eyes flickered open.

The world around her was dim, and warm, and somewhere, behind it all…

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

It wasn’t coming from inside her head. She knew that sound, had heard it many times when she had lived in the countryside; someone was hammering at something.

But what business would Humperdinck have put them to? Surely…

No.

Wait.

The memories, scattered and tangled, began to spool back to her.

The Sicilian. His accomplices. The boat. Lowtown.

_Westley._

She practically jumped where she was lying, and immediately regretted the motion, as the pain stabbed in her head again.

She held up a hand to her face, and squeezed her eyes closed, the action tinged by the peculiar sensation that always accompanied sleep that had been prolonged far too long.

When she opened her eyes again, lights popped and flickered, but as they cleared, it seemed that she could see clearly.

Blinking the last of sleep from her eyes, she looked around, trying to take stock of her surroundings.

The bed was soft, and the blankets were fine. The room was otherwise sparsely furnished, but what little there was seemed well crafted. There was a desk across from her, with a chair, and something indistinct piled on top of it, and a shuttered window on one wall. A cabinet stood next to the desk, or… Perhaps it was a wardrobe? Across from the window, a door.

_Where was she?_

She had dueled Westley, of course, and he had whispered… _something._ An apology?

And then he’d pushed her from the window…

There had been more. Waking, walking… But where? And where was she now?

There were more memories, after that. Hazy, barely there. She remembered… Being somewhere… Here, perhaps. It was all too muddled.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed; they shook, but held her weight as she stood. She put a hand up against a wall, and carefully stretched out. How long had she been in this bed? How long had she been _here._ And what _was_ ‘here?’ A home? A dormitory? A monastery, or…

Her head still ached when she moved, but the sensation was dull. She took a step forward, and felt an almost familiar prickle at her side.

She reached down, and found a bandage wrapped around her waist.

She looked down at herself, and… the cloth of her attire had been ripped away, leaving her shirt unnaturally short. Where the missing fabric had been, though, was a cloth bandage, and, as she pressed her hand to it, the wound seemed to already be mostly healed, if the dull, throbbing pain was to be believed.

She took a few slow steps in the direction of the desk, where the shape of the pile, coupled with the state of her shirt, was beginning to give her the impression that she knew what it was.

And…

She frowned.

A fine set of clothes, like a lower noble might wear.

She shook her head in disbelief, and instantly regretted it as the hammer fell again.

 _A soft bed, tended wounds, fine clothes..._ Someone had to be paying for this.

Someone wanted her alive, and she was hard-pressed to find an altruistic motive for it. The sort of people who could supply such things rarely did so from the kindness of their hearts.

She could take the clothes, but… No. Better to take as little as possible; less taken, less owed.

She took a breath, and stepped back from the desk.

She looked over, through the window.

The window looked out into shadow, but of the sort that suggested the sun was shining down just out of view. The view, such as it was, was nothing more than a wall, perhaps another house. And no sight of the ground; it seemed she was on the second story of wherever she was. She walked around to get a better angle.

As her eyes focused into the brilliant light, she could see a street, people walking by, and in the distance, buildings. It looked like she was still in Lowtown.

Well, she hadn’t made it here by sitting around and thinking, although, really, it wasn’t as if where she’d made it had been especially good. Perhaps a bit of thinking would be in order, but, then again, what would she think about? She didn’t know enough yet to think on it.

She made for the door.

It was unlocked, which said something on its own; she wasn’t being imprisoned. The hallways outside felt very lived in, a clean, well-trodden path cutting through the dust in the corners, a window to the right providing light, and a stairway to the left providing the sounds of a conversation from downstairs.

Then there was nothing for it. She silently took a breath and made for the ground floor.

 _“…but I could_ h _ave crossed and found him by now!”_

“In the dungeons of the prince, no doubt.”

“No, no, no,” and the word seemed accompanied by a shaking head. “Vizzini would not be caught so easily.”

Her field of vision swelled to include a dining table, around which sat three men.

Inigo, of course, and there, across from him, Fezzik, and reclining in another chair…

“And our strategist is awake,” said Ryan. “How did your room treat you?”

“Well enough. Strategist?”

“An offer for you,” said Ryan, winking. “Might be a common cause here.”

She cocked her head.

“Tell me; are you going after Westley?”

Buttercup froze. He _had_ known, though why he’d neglected to make it clear she didn’t know.

“Why should I?”

“He had an abundance of faith in you.”

“And?”

“I never thought him the sort to misplace such a thing.”

“He ran, let me think him dead.”

“And what would you have preferred?”

“A message. Anything to let me know that he still lived and breathed.”

“ _W_ ait,” said Inigo, “who is this _W_ estley?”

“Roberts. It’s his real name.”

“Oh. Then why call _h_ imself Roberts?”

“Would you surrender to the dread pirate Westley?”

Inigo’s forehead creased. “I would not surrender to Roberts.”

“It makes the difference for some folk,” said Ryan. “I can say that it was almost a year before he knew he would live. Longer before he knew his fortune was secured. And never would he have been able to say he had an honorable profession.”

“Better a pirate than dead.”

“Well, if he’d known that’s how you felt about it…”

“He would have told me?”

A shrug. “Maybe. He certainly hated cutting off contact.”

She crossed her arms.

“So. Strategist…”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I can’t force you to help him, but if you’re doing it, you’ve got a giant and a master swordsman on your side.”

She furrowed her brow, and glanced at the other two.

“The six-fingered man who killed my father is with the prince who took Roberts.”

“Assuming it’s the same six-fingered man,” appended Ryan, shrugging. “But really, what are the odds of that.”

“And you?” she said, pointing to Fezzik.

He shrugged. “It’s good to help people.”

She blinked. Good enough.

“And you,” she said, bringing the finger to bear against Ryan. “Why help, but not include yourself?”

“Bad leg,” he responded smoothly. “Can’t sail unassisted, certainly won’t be of much help breaking into a castle.”

“And I would have thought you could dance to match your tongue.”

“Ha! Once, yes. Not anymore.”

There was silence.

The conversation she’d overheard, the ache when she’d stood… He’d kept them waiting so that she could make use of their skills.

“And why have you helped me?”

He grinned. “Swap you for the answer to whether you’re going to get him back.”

She matched his gaze, steady, accompanied by a smirk, with one of her own.

“Yes.”

“Good. Then I’ll answer on the way to the boat.” He reached down to his side, and pulled out what Buttercup had, on previous meetings, taken to be a sword. He planted the cane underneath himself, and stood up. “We don’t have any time to lose.”

“What?”

“Well, his execution’s in just under a day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in this chapter, I actually pulled the original ('abridged') book off the shelf and gave it a read for a hot minute. I'm curious if you can spot the moment where the style shifted.  
> Also, side-note, parts of the original book, very well written. Other parts, I look at and I've just got to give a big 'hmmm'


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After some preparations, they make for the boat. Buttercup has a suspicion, and introduces herself properly.

_“What!?”_

“A day, if that. 500th anniversary, if you recall. A grand day for Florin, and a good one to execute the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“That was a week away!”

“Certainly,” said Ryan, “and you cut it very close to the deadline. Now, back upstairs, I think, and get dressed _properly._ Nobody takes a dashing rescuer seriously in ripped clothes.”

“I’ll need a sword.”

He grinned, turning to the hearth, where a pair of crossed swords hung above the fireplace. “Already dealt with.”

“I t _h_ ought you said you didn’t take those down,” said Inigo as she walked back up the stairs.

\--

“Only on special occasions,” said Ryan, grinning, “and I think this is one special enough.”

“Oh.”

“Here,” said Ryan, reaching up a hand and pulling one free, scabbard and all, “take a look.” So saying, he flung it in a wonderful arc, and Inigo snatched it from the air.

In a flash of silver, the blade was freed, and Inigo gave it an inspection.

“No magnum opus, but a masterpiece all the same, I think.”

“It is very fine,” agreed Inigo. “Where did it come from?”

“An old captain told me to take it, with his dying breath,” said Ryan, grinning, “I still have scars from that fight.”

“A generous man,” said Inigo.

“A masterful duelist. I think it was the way he wanted to die.”

Inigo nodded. It was an entirely understandable thought. You lived by the sword, and died by it.

“Now,” he said, glancing about, “you’re both ready, yes?”

“I have been ready since the moment Fezzik told me of the six-fingered man.”

“I have no doubt. We just need our guest of honor. Be ready to hand the sword over, yes?”

Inigo nodded, but made a few tentative motions with the sword, getting a feel for the weight.

“Well balanced,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “and a fine blade.” He glanced over, “if he matched his sword, it was quite a fight.”

“It certainly was,” said Ryan. “See, the Revenge came up on them in the middle of the night,” he leaned himself up against a wall, and made a sweeping gesture with the cane, swinging it up and knocking the other sword free. He caught it ably, and pulled it loose. “They barely knew we were there before we were upon them. We were maybe 50 feet out when the lookout called out. We were fast, but they must have been ready for us; half the crew was on deck, and the lanterns were lit by the time we were close enough to board. Now, imagine that, yes? All shadows and flickering lights; it was a beautiful sight, and wonderfully exciting. This was back when my leg was good, so I made, first thing, for the captain’s quarters; get in close, cut the ship off at the head, and the rest fold quickly. Besides, the captain always has the best loot.”

He swished the sword in the air, bringing it out in front of him as if on the verge of dueling. “And out steps this little twig of a man, scarce a man at all, by the look of him, and he sees me. Now by that point, I’d seen plenty of men give up and run when confronted with someone like me, but this boy, he wasn’t even scared. Pulled that very blade loose and brought the fight straight for me.” He grinned, arm twitching as if running through phantom maneuvers. “And he said, and I’ll never forget it, ‘One of us dies tonight.’ And he fought fit to make me wonder if it would be me.”

\--

“Then you sailed on the Revenge?” said Buttercup, coming back down the stairs

“Of course! Where did you think I met Westley? Now, the sword.”

Inigo nodded, and, sheathing it in a single fluid motion, brandished it to her, hilt first.

She took it, and began belting it on.

“Now, to the docks with us.”

“You have a ship, then?”

“Naturally. A man doesn’t simply become an ex-pirate without keeping a boat to his name.”

Ryan shifted his weight to his good leg, and knocked the door open with the cane.

“Let’s move quickly, yes? No time to lose.”

“You promised me an answer,” said Buttercup, following him outside. “An answer to why you helped me.”

“I did no such thing,” said Ryan, not looking back. “A promise is a very strong thing; I simply said I’d tell you.”

“And did you lie?”

“No, no, I’m simply saying there’s an important distinction to be made. A promise is tantamount to giving your word. Even a pirate hesitates to do such a thing.”

Buttercup had made a study of pirates since Westley had died, or… Well, been presumed dead.

“That’s a lie.”

“Not for me,” said Ryan. “But anyway, I’m dodging the question here, aren’t I.”

“Yes.”

“The fact of the matter is, I helped you because Westley would never forgive me if I didn’t. I already almost let you kill each other.”

“And why did you do that?”

Ryan shrugged with his free arm. “I didn’t think you’d actually _kill_ each other. I thought it’d just be an exciting way for the two of you to meet again after all this time. I’ve been right so far, and if you make it out of this alive, the two of you, I’ll have been right the whole way through.”

“I see.”

“Now, one more question, if you please,” said Ryan.

“Yes?”

“Do you mind if I use your name? Only it gets rather tiring to restrict myself, and I _do_ know it. You didn’t even give any of us a pseudonym to work with; Fezzik simply calls you the boss, and Inigo has been dancing around the issue all week.”

She glanced back, to the sight of Inigo grimacing.

She opened her mouth to respond, but…

“I’ll trade it to you for a proper introduction.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I don’t think you’ve properly made it clear who you are.”

He glanced back at her, a gleam in his eye. “Now, now, does that mean you have a guess?”

“I do.”

“Then I accept your offer.”

She nodded, and took a deep breath.

“Then my name is Buttercup. Until recently, I was the Prince’s bride-to-be.”

“Out on a mission to kill the man who killed your love,” finished Ryan, “who then turned out to be the very man you thought had died.”

Buttercup glanced back.

“Yes.”

Fezzik seemed to be silently mulling over the information, while Inigo seemed surprised, but only in the way that a spectator to a fight might be when a promising young rookie used an advanced technique unexpectedly. More professionally perplexed than shocked.

“Now,” she said, looking forward again.

Ryan turned, pausing in the middle of the street. “As you say.” He grinned widely. “A pleasure to meet you. I am an ex-pirate from the ship Revenge. Before I served, I went by Ryan, as I do now, but perhaps you heard the name I assumed while aboard?”

Buttercup crossed her arms. It seemed theatrics went with piracy.

“The Dread Pirate Roberts,” he said, bowing, “at your service.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those keeping score at home, who are somewhat familiar with the source material, but haven't watched the movie in a while (I can't speak to the book) it's actually 100% canonical that the former Dread Pirate Roberts was named Ryan. Originally, their contact in Lowtown was just some random drunk, but then I had this idea, and I thought... 'yeah, that seems reasonable.'
> 
> I wonder whether this qualifies as an original character or not, though... Like, he exists in the story, he just never appears on screen, meaning his characterization is 95% guesswork.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the time of Westley's execution draws nigh, Rugen finally begins to make progress, and Vizzini finds himself in more danger than he's used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a slower chapter this time.

“You know, we could make this _far_ simpler. Not, of course, that I am complaining, I find the more precise aspects of this process very stimulating, but I am rather surprised that you maintain such an… adversarial air about the whole thing.”

Roberts turned his eyes, tired but still entirely functional, towards him.

“You _do_ realize that this keeps you alive no longer than simply signing the confession, yes?”

A groan, the only sound he seemed capable of making.

“Intriguing, I must admit.”

Rugen scratched at his beard. Roberts had proven stubbornly resistant to even the draining of torture, which was usually quite effective.

“What is it then? A matter of honor? I would find that hard to believe from a pirate.”

Roberts didn’t respond.

Rugen looked him over, and then stood. Reaching over, he pulled at a lever on the ponderous Machine that filled the room. Water flowed, valves pulled, and Roberts let out a slow, pained groan as the life was slowly pulled from his body.

Theoretically, The Machine could produce effects that were orders of magnitude greater than this, but _those…_ Those tended to kill the recipients.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I’ll simply leave you to it.”

He stood, and, accompanied by the sound of creaking machinery and soft agony from behind him, he walked leisurely over to his desk.

Requisitions, of course, for the execution; it had to be secure, lest Roberts’ crew come to his aid. The Thieves’ forest would need to be cleared, of course, and that would require a brute squad.

This would all have been better performed days ago, of course, but the simple fact of the matter was that he’d been occupied; the Sicilian had monopolized hours of his time perfecting even the most petty details of the confession he was to sign, and had been working most carefully to be certain that those clauses that guaranteed his continued his survival were airtight, and, of course, as a man who was not in any way planning to kill the man (mostly) Rugen had been forced to sit there as the details were modified, and remodified, and… Rugen’s estimation of the man had, admittedly been raised slightly by the whole process. His countless ‘ifs’ and ‘therefores’ had been largely airtight in securing himself against any direct action against him. The witnesses had seen it signed; he would not be executed, whether it be by poison, blade, bludgeoning, any other form of weaponry, nor would he be tortured or in any way incentivized towards seeking freedom by any means necessary, nor…

Yet he’d made the fatal mistake of allowing himself to be kept as a prisoner for a duration of one year, as a token punishment for his involvement.

Well, a year was plenty of time for some unfortunate accident to happen. Food that happened to have gone off (which, of course, the cook would be punished for) or… any number of options, really. 

Ah, but he was distracting himself. There was paperwork to handle, reports from the outer reaches of the country, the comings and goings of various itinerants, including a number that could have been pirates from the Revenge. Anyone who had been in Florin for more than a day or so was in his records. The only way to slip by would be to sacrifice the time to plan on the spot. Thus, a frontal assault would be the only option, and that was a losing gambit.

This was all presupposed on the loyalty of pirates, but Humperdinck had insisted all the same; better cautious than rash.

He looked through the reports, and found little of note. There were pirates in a nearby port, but they were largely spending their hard-stolen coin in the taverns, and growing drunk. There were thieves in the Thieves’ Forest, but no more than usual.

He let the time slip by, taking a relaxed approach to his duties today; it was a rare occasion when sloth was a virtue, but today…

Eventually, he stood.

He turned back to where Roberts was still lying, and stepped back over.

His body was drenched with sweat, though he was externally unharmed, and he was shuddering as if he wanted to vomit.

Rugen almost cracked a smile.

“I’ll make you an offer,” he said. “I’ve rarely had a subject experience The Machine quite like this. If you help me fill out my notes, I’ll offer you a reprieve.”

And, for the first time in the week, Roberts nodded, shaking.

“Excellent.”

He pushed the lever back into position, and The Machine slowed to a halt.

“Now…” he said, opening his notebook, “Compared to previous sessions, where the focus was on intensity, how would you describe this one _?”_

\--

The cell was clean, and he’d been amply supplied, by his own contract, with blankets, spare clothing, and any number of amenities.

Vizzini knew a death trap when he saw it.

They’d been too insistent on some ‘symbolic’ punishment for it to have been coincidence.

So… He needed to escape.

The cell door _was_ locked, of course, but surely that could be circumvented…

Vizzini took a deep breath, and sat down.

Minutes slipped by, marked only by careful, precise thought.

Humperdinck knew he was a threat, of course, and he was already proven as an accomplished hunter. Rugen would likely follow his lead. Despite his best efforts, both of them had stubbornly resisted his attempts to gain some degree of trust, and potentially escape the path they were trying to put him on. That being the case, he needed to make his _own_ escape. He needed to make himself unfollowable, and…

He needed to make his escape when they wouldn’t be expecting it.

And… When wouldn’t they be expecting it?

He glanced through the bars of the window, where the sky was now pitch-black, the moon outside rising high overhead.

“Excuse me,” he said to the guard outside, “could I have a word?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way back to Florin, Ryan tells the story of The Dread Pirate Roberts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun fact, you know that bit at the end of the movie about how 'there have been X kisses of something something something?' Apparently, the book also starts pretty early by explaining that Buttercup is, by the events of the main story, the most beautiful woman in the world, which, is... something? I don't know. I find it kind of interesting that pretty much the first thing we actually see her do in *this* story is cut of her hair, and I'm forced to wonder how William Goldman would have narrated that. I am further forced to make the educated guess that most of the people reading this story would disagree with him, and, immediately afterwards, invoke Death of the Author.  
> Anyway. That's not *particularly* related to this chapter, it's just a thought I had while working on it that seems reasonable to bring up in the notes.

“So… You are _R_ oberts.”

“Am, was, whichever.”

“And the man _she_ is chasing is also Roberts.”

“Yup.”

“And the man at the bar was Roberts.”

“That’s about the shape of it.”

Inigo, momentarily stationary where he stood by the sail, stared out into the ocean. Seconds passed, and his brow furrowed.

“It is not that common of a name, is it?”

Ryan laughed. “I guess it is around _here_.”

They were still an hour or two from Florin, and Ryan, before he’d handed over the tiller to Buttercup, had said he could see something on the horizon; not land, but the impression of it.

“But _h_ is name is not Roberts, really.”

“I mean… The bartender’s name _is_ Roberts.”

“No, not _h_ im.”

“Ah. No, the man she’s hunting for generally went by Westley… Or Farm Boy if you want to be… _familiar._ ”

Buttercup looked sharply back at him.

Ryan, leaned back up against a bit of rigging, snorted at the expression. “Well. He hasn’t gone by it in, oh… 5 years, in fairness.”

“And… You are not Roberts either.”

“Not anymore.”

Inigo put a hand up to his face in consternation.

“Because I wasn’t the _original_ Roberts,” said Ryan, responding to the unspoken question. “I got the job from the last Roberts; except he wasn’t Roberts either. His name was Cummerbund.”

“Cummerbund?” cut in Buttercup.

Ryan shrugged. “We don’t pick the names we’re born with. Anyway. The man _he_ got the name Roberts from _was_ Roberts.”

“And what became of him?”

“He got rich, went off to Patagonia, apparently. Probably still living the high life.”

“And Cummerbund?”

“Lost an eye in a duel. Almost lost his throat, too.”

“And you?”

He shrugged. “It’s a funny thing. I was already in the market for a way out; the pirating life is… lucrative, but you’re at sea so much you don’t really get to enjoy it all. Half-ruined my leg, but not enough to get a peg leg. The sort of thing that makes a man want to retire.”

He leaned back, looping his hands through the ropes.

“We’d just taken a cargo ship, nothing special, sunk the ship, and we were going over the survivors.” Ryan’s eyes were faraway, now. “Most of them were the usual suspects; you know, blubbering, threatening, asking for the chance to be ransomed when they clearly didn’t have the money for it… A few who asked for a trial by combat, actually, but nobody who actually made it through it.” Ryan’s eyes were faraway, now. “And then, last in the line, was this grubby farm boy who didn’t even seem scared. He didn’t even say a word as we were going through the others, just sat there, kneeling down, and when I got to him…” Ryan shook his head. “He just said ‘please.’ I hadn’t expected that. ‘Please, I need to live.’”

Inigo nodded appreciatively. “Very polite.”

Ryan chuckled. “I suppose. I asked him why, of course; maybe it’s not the choice a Dread Pirate should make, but I was curious.”

“And?” said Buttercup.

“He looked me in the eye, and so… _sadly_ that I knew he had to mean it, he just said ‘True Love.’”

Buttercup was suddenly intensely grateful for the mask concealing the rising heat in her cheeks.

“ _Well,”_ said Ryan, voice immediately returning to the tone of the showman, “I had to know more! I asked, and he… Well, he told me about a girl of surpassing beauty and faithfulness. You, obviously; I must say, I think even his glowing words didn’t quite capture the whole of you.”

“I was very different then.”

“I imagine so! A bit less skilled with the blade, perhaps. A bit less… _Vengeful.”_

Buttercup nodded.

“Well,” he said, and chuckled, “he was pretty different back then, himself, and in much the same ways. Never held a sword, never crewed a ship. Strong, though. Farm labor, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“Anyway,” he said, “I was far too interested by then to just kill him out of hand, so I made him a deal; he could be my cabin boy for a while, and every day he was was a day I wasn’t killing him.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice,” rumbled Fezzik.

“Truth be told, I wasn’t really intending to kill him after the first few days. Especially since, with how quickly he started picking things up, he was looking like a good successor.”

“But the crew must have known.”

“When we made the swap, we took on an entirely different crew,” said Ryan, shrugging. “It’s an awful lot of work, but it’s not like you have to do it that often. Only once, really. I stayed on for a bit, just to make sure they believed he was Roberts, then took my leave. And… Well, you know where I’ve been since then.”

He glanced out ahead of them.

“Ah. And I see we’re drawing quite close.”

Indeed, Florin was now quite visible on the horizon.

“Do we have a plan?” asked Fezzik, in the tone of one who feels quite worried that they do not.

All eyes on the ship turned to Buttercup.

“The execution is tomorrow, then?”

A nod.

“And where is Westley until then?”

“The cells of the castle, I’d assume.”

“And what of the six-fingered man?” said Inigo.

“Likely with the prince,” said Buttercup.

“Ah, then that is where we begin? Or is it where we finish.”

Truth be told, what Buttercup _wanted_ to start with was getting Westley out. The problem was, if he was in the cells… The keep was, as with most keeps, well secured. Getting inside would be a challenge, whether it was by force of arms or by cunning.

For a moment, Buttercup cursed her lost hair; the princess, missing, likely presumed dead, suddenly arriving would have caused quite a stir… Although… How long had it been since Humperdinck had presented her to the people of Florin? Surely, it had not even been two weeks, yet here she was, no longer dressed as a Princess, the golden, the flowing hair they would have recognized long since cut short. There were those in the castle that would still recognize her, if prompted, but then, what good did that do her? They would tell Humperdinck.

The execution would surely be in the main square… How well guarded would Westley be then? Surely, a half-dozen guards at _least._ No. More. The Dread Pirate Roberts was the captain of a crew of pirates, and such people were not to be taken lightly. That aside, Humperdinck wouldn’t risk such a prestigious event, and the more guards there were, the more impressive the captive seemed to require them.

Internally, Buttercup cursed the Prince’s name. It seemed his eternal pursuit of glory was endlessly at her expense.

Westley would be heavily guarded no matter where he was taken, and with armed guards around them, he was not only defended, but a hostage as well.

As long as the guards had a knife to Westley’s throat, there was nothing any of them could do to save him.

Buttercup’s brow furrowed, as the shape of a thought twisted in her mind.

Bit by bit, pieces clicked together.

Seconds passed, then minutes. Florin drew closer, as did nightfall.

“I have a plan.”


	19. The Dread Pirate's Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Westley, the day of reckoning has arrived; he is to be executed.

“Sorry, sir,” came a rasped voice.

There was no response, as Westley bumped and scraped his way into the wheelbarrow.

With a suddenness that surprised him, there was a _whoosh_ of cloth, and he was covered.

“Keep him covered, and deliver him to the keep. If you are asked, he is a victim of a rare sickness.”

“Yes sir.”

“When you arrive, chain him, and force him to swallow these. _In that order,_ am I understood?”

Silence for a moment.

“Yessir. What do they do?”

“Wake him up.”

The cloth was pulled back, and Westley was momentarily looking into the face of Rugen’s albino assistant.

“Think he’s already awake, sir.”

“He is. These will wake him up properly. Thus, the need for the chains.”

“Ah. Yes sir.”

There was the sound of footsteps, Rugen’s boots loud on the stairs out.

“And hurry; the execution must not be delayed.”

“Yes sir.”

The cloth was pulled back across his face, and he felt the shudder as the wheelbarrow began to move.

He could feel the turns as he was wheeled up the ramp, the sudden breeze, filtering even through the thick cloth, but despite his best efforts, he could make no motion to pull the cloth away, nor to speak. He could scarcely even breath, the sensation of near-suffocation almost as bad as the torture of The Machine.

He had long since gathered that wherever he had been kept was not in the main keep of Florin, but where it was, he didn’t know. It wasn’t, of course, that that mattered, but he was trapped in his body, and his mind longed to at least make sense of _something_ before he was executed.

He’d stubbornly resisted their insistence that he sign the confession; it had been a vain hope that it would save him, but… What good would it have done him to relent? Perhaps the torture would have been cut short, but…

The bumping of the wheelbarrow was almost restful, and he found himself tempted to simply slip into peaceful oblivion; perhaps it would be good practice for death. Certainly, his body felt almost on the verge of letting his spirit go.

The bumping continued. He tried to move his fingers. One twitched, but he could make nothing more of them.

“Excuse me,” came a voice, from ahead and, had his body been capable of it, he would have stiffened where he lay, “do you know when today’s execution is?”

The wheelbarrow stopped. “Who wants to know, eh?”

“We are circus performers,” came another voice, and he almost managed to clench a fist, voice stubbornly silent in his throat.

A considering silence.

“What sort of circus performers?”

“The sort,” said Ryan, “who perform acts of daring and swordplay. We shall put on such a spectacle after the execution as has never been seen. A routine designed to mimic the very swordplay of Roberts himself.”

“Ah.”

“If you see it, you won’t forget it,” said Buttercup.

“Huh,” said the Albino. “I’ll keep it in mind. The execution’s in…” silence. “Oh, twenty minutes? Less, maybe.”

“Ah. Then it seems we woke later than we intended. I had meant for us to arrive early.”

The Albino laughed, and the wheelbarrow was rolling again.

“We’ll need to move faster,” said Buttercup, her voice fading into the distance.

“Switch legs with me and I’ll consider it, or get _him_ to give me a ride in the barrow,” came Roberts’ reply, and then they were too far away for him to hear any more.

“Well. Looks like you’re going to be quite the spectacle, eh?”

He didn’t respond.

A laugh.

“Obviously, wouldn’t want to switch places with you, but it’s not the worst way to go… Memorable, at least.”

So saying, the rest of the trip passed in silence.

There was a change in the sounds from outside the barrow. There were people out there, though surely none that would help him even if they knew he was there.

He was on trodden dirt, now, if his mind didn’t fail him.

There were crowds around, but they weren’t stopped, the wheelbarrow wasn’t searched, he wasn’t discovered.

The voices faded behind them, and suddenly, the wagon bumped to a halt.

“State your business,” came an almost bored voice.

“Got a delivery. Coming on orders of the Count himself.”

A long silence, and then.

“Good, good, the albino he mentioned, I remember.”

“Yeah.”

The sound of a gate opening.

“Oi! Rugen’s delivery’s here.”

The sounds of men in armor approaching, and then the cloth was pulled away.

Armored men looked down at him.

“That’s Roberts?”

“Seems so.”

“Guess the count had quite a time with him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the Albino, “help me move him.”

There were arms under his limbs, and Westley felt himself lifted out of the wheelbarrow.

He was carried inside, and propped up against a wall.

“So… This is what they’re executing.”

“Give him a bit. Rugen says he needs waking up.”

There was the chill metal of shackles at his wrists, and then his mouth was pulled fully ajar.

There was a taste of something… Sweet? A ball of some bittersweet chocolate, pushed down his throat, swallowed only reflexively.

“So? What’s that supposed to do?”

“Don’t know. Count said to do it.” Another was forced his throat, and, had his body been able to muster the response, he would have gagged.

“Well, whatever the case, I think you’re done here.”

A laugh. “Rest of the day off for me.”

The Albino walked away, licking at his fingers.

One guard turned to the other.

“Go make sure the rest of them get here in time; I’m not going to be the one who explains it to Humperdinck if we don’t have the full squad.”

That put a spring in the other man’s step, and he practically jumped his way out.

Westley’s eyes flicked from side to side. A muscle in his arm twitched, and the world slowly began to grow strange around him. He tried move a finger again, and was surprised to feel it slowly curl at his side. His breathing rasped in his throat as he pulled in a deeper breath than he had managed in days.

There was only one man here. The others would be back soon. He strained his body, and managed to slip higher into his sitting position. His hands slowly clenched and unclenched. The world around seemed to grow sharper, in a way that he had never seen it before. It all seemed… It seemed too real, and yet, for all that, as if nothing was truly there except him.

The guard was staring after his fellow, and Westley, struggled, slowly putting his legs underneath him; if he could make it to the door, perhaps he’d be able to convince the guards there that-

“Good,” said Rugen, seeming to appear abruptly. “I see it’s taking effect. I trust he gave you both?”

Westley looked over at him, the idea of speaking oddly difficult.

“Yes, I’d have to assume so. A curious treatment, isn’t it? Not my area of expertise, I’ve always been more of a poisoner, but I suppose they are the same art, ultimately.”

He had his legs almost under him, now.

“A single pill would likely have been sufficient, but I wished to make _entirely_ certain that you were able to stand. Please, _do_ remember to struggle on the way out, yes?”

He groaned, sliding up the wall.

“Take the chain, and do not let go of it until his head is in the basket,” said Rugen, and the guard did so.

“Twice the ordinary dosage… Well, suffice to say that I’ve never _tried_ it; it’s quite difficult to come by. Really, it’s a shame that you’ll be dead before I get a chance to see your reaction. I’ve long-since supposed that, with the effects of a single dose, your body would simply fall apart at the second. However, if you feel your heart tearing itself to pieces in its frenzy, please, _do_ attempt to make it to the execution, yes?”

He managed a tortured, angry sound.

“Though, I suppose the draining effects of The Machine may be to your benefit in this case; perhaps my next subject will be an experiment on how well this treatment helps one resist the machine. Perhaps that would let me prolong the experience at a higher setting…” Westley pulled at the chain, barely keeping his feet. The guard seemed surprised by the shock of the motion, but maintained his grip.

“Ah, but I’ve long since lost your attention,” said Rugen, shaking his head. “And, if my eyes do not deceive me, that will be the rest of your guards.”

Sure enough, though the world around him was sharpening into utter oblivion, he could make out the guards approaching.

“Now,” said Rugen, no longer addressing him. “You are to surround him. Swords out. If anyone approaches, don’t hesitate to offer them a souvenir of their approach. You are to assume that there are pirates in the crowd who will stop at nothing to recover this man. Are we clear?”

There was a general mutter of ‘Yes sir,’ and then Rugen was walking swiftly away.

Westley, in the dazed clarity the pills had inflicted upon him, tried to pull away, but his body, though it obeyed him, did so only clumsily. The chain pulled at him, and he had no choice but to follow.

They passed through the keep, and then, there was light, and he was stepping out into the noon sun.

There was an overwhelming chorus of jeering. He could hear ‘Pirate’ and ‘Murderer’ and worse. A thousand voices calling out, raging in unison.

“The Dread Pirate Roberts!” came a voice, shouting out, barely audible over the crowd. “The notorious scourge of the seas! A murderer! A kidnapper! The man who has stolen the Princess from us!”

The crowd roared its fury.

“And yet, there is still more! He has committed treason against all of Florin! He has conspired with Gilder! He has taken _their_ payment to spit in our faces! To stab at our hearts!”

They wanted blood, and the execution block rose ponderously before him, a promise and a threat.

“His coconspirator has signed the confession! He was found in Lowtown, and when the Prince arrived to save his love, it was _Roberts! Roberts_ who stabbed the Princess through her heart!”

The sound was deafening, now, and worse for the clarity of mind. Were he to escape, he would still die, and far more gruesomely than a mere axe through the neck.

He started up the steps. One of the guards was forced to push one of the townspeople away, brandishing his blade. For an instant, he wanted to try forcing his way past, but then the moment was gone.

“As the King’s lawfully appointed Regent, it is the Prince’s responsibility to determine this _criminal’s_ fate!” Continued the Crier.

He was forced down to his knees at the block.

The executioner looked down at him, face devoid of emotion beyond professional consideration.

He easily, almost gently, maneuvered Westley’s arms back to the other side of the block, and nodded in satisfaction.

“Now!” called the Crier, “Prince Humperdinck! We await nothing more than your decision! Shall we pardon this criminal, or shall he be punished in accordance with the law!?”

The crowd fell silent.

Westley’s hands clenched, but… His head sank. There was nothing he could do. Humperdinck had his answer, and there was only one answer it could be. No Crier would make the crowd so furious unless he knew the final answer would match the tone of his announcement.

“I declare,” came Humperdinck’s voice, echoing down from above, “that this man be…”

Westley let out a breath.

There was a gasp from the crowd, and then the screaming began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate summary: 'Westley does drugs and gets executed.'


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buttercup has a plan to save Westley, but the crowds will be too large, the guards too numerous, and Westley altogether too much of a hostage, for a frontal assault.

“Now, tell me,” said Ryan, moving as quickly as his leg would let him, “do you have any particular requests regarding Humperdinck? If, by some chance, he ends up at my mercy, do I let him live so _you_ can kill him, or…?”

Buttercup gave him a half-confused look.

“Some people get very picky about that kind of thing,” he said, shrugging.

“The six-fingered man is mine to kill,” said Inigo.

“Ah! See, that’s what I mean,” he gave her a meaningful look, “I _will_ keep that in mind.”

“You shouldn’t need to fight _anyone,”_ said Buttercup.

“Yes, well, a great many things _shouldn’t_ happen, but look what we’re doing right now! I wasn’t even supposed to come along with you. Surely you can’t think this was ‘supposed’ to happen?”

Fezzik nodded solemnly.

“I am not here to kill him.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Very well. No mercy from me, then, if it comes to it.”

They were almost upon the castle, now, and as they passed through the gates, the crowds pushing in around them, Buttercup cut off the main path.

Their presence had been noticed, of course; Fezzik alone would have been a sight to behold, but those that were closest to them cast curious glances at the rest of them.

And then, they were out into the grass, away from the crowd.

“Just here,” said Buttercup, nodding her head at a small gate at the side.

“Unlocked?” said Ryan.

“No. But I could see it from my window, and every day, at noon exactly…”

As if by clockwork, the door swung open, just as they came to it.

The woman’s eyes widened as she beheld them. She stared between them.

“You again! The- The men who took the princess!”

“No,” said Buttercup, stepping forward, careful to look her dead in the eyes. “Have you already forgotten my face?”

The woman stared, uncomprehending.

The blood drained from her face.

“They said you were dead, Miss.”

“No. I’ve come back, and I have urgent news for the Prince. I must see him immediately, you understand?”

“I- Oh- Yes!” She flung the door open for them, put down the basket she’d been carrying beside it. “He’ll be up on the balcony for the execution.”

She pulled the door after them, and latched it.

Buttercup didn’t bother to wait. She knew the way.

“Miss!” said the woman, bustling after her, trying to keep up.

She was only halfway up the first flight of steps, when-

“Agh!”

She spun on her heel, letting Inigo and Fezzik pass her, as-

“Ah,” said Ryan, falling to one knee on the steps, cane slipped halfway from under him, “Oh, curse this leg, it seems it’s forsaken me once again. Madam, I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you to offer a poor man a bit of assistance?”

\--

She looked back, but Buttercup was already most of the way out of sight. The giant would have been a better choice, or the Spaniard, but…

He glanced back up at her, and, putting one leg beneath him, began to force himself upright.

“The trials of age, I’m afraid,” he said, “someday, no doubt, you will feel them yourself.”

She laughed. “Sir, I have already felt some share of age’s rigors.”

“Surely you must jest,” he said, and winked, “how can such age exist where youth is so plain?”

Well… The Princess surely knew the way?

\--

Buttercup felt some grim satisfaction at the ease of their entry. Humperdinck could place as many guards as he wanted on Westley, but the gates were open all the same, and a wall was only as strong as its weakest door.

Most of the castle seemed practically empty; the old king was likely still in bed, and the guards would be mostly guarding the prisoner.

Up the stairs, and through the halls, and in mere moments…

There was the archway to the balcony, and beyond… She could hear the jeers of the crowd; Westley had to be out there, now… For a second, she felt panic rise, but… _No. Panic would do her no good._

A figure stepped from an adjacent hallway, and she barely had time to slip into an alcove before he glanced over.

“Shaping up to be a successful day,” came Humperdinck’s voice from the balcony. “Excellent work with the guards, of course.”

“A toast to the success, then.”

“Quite so.”

A silence, likely filled with a drink, and Buttercup noticed with a start that Fezzik and Inigo were behind her.

“Today, we kill Roberts, tomorrow, we make ready for war… I suppose we’ll need to make certain the Sicilian is recovered as well… Ah, a busy day, and then another follows. You are quite certain he did no more than escape?”

“The taste-tester is still at work in the kitchens, my lord, but nothing of note yet.”

“Excellent. Now, have you any spare guards?”

“A few.”

“Perhaps they should guard the balcony. The gates should be safe enough, yes?”

“Yes. No sight of any siege engines.” A dry chuckle.

“Good.”

And then, silently, Count Rugen (for Buttercup was perfectly familiar with the man) stepped back out, and made for the steps.

 _“Inigo,”_ hissed Fezzik, and nodded fervently.

Inigo’s head _snapped_ to look at him.

_“Him?”_

A nod.

He looked at her for only a moment, but she got the impression that her response mattered little; nothing would stop him from chasing the man. That was fine; she couldn’t risk a cadre of guards at the wrong moment _anyway._

As Inigo practically bolted after him, Fezzik gave her a questioning look.

“I can handle _him_ on my own,” she said, and, without waiting for a response, stepped through the archway.

She already had the sword drawn by the time Humperdinck turned to see why Rugen had returned.

_Behind him, she could see Westley almost at the execution block._

His eyes went wide, and he pulled the dagger at his side, standing, knocking the flask from the arm of his chair.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

“You’re here to kill me.”

“No.”

“The sword doesn’t lend itself to many other options.”

“I’m here to save _his_ life.”

He glanced back.

“You’re a strange pirate, then.”

“Wrong again.”

“Then tell me more.”

“No. I will leave you here, and you will never know who I was, or why I cared. You’re perfectly welcome to wonder for the rest of your life.”

Humperdinck blinked at her.

“Soon, they will ask you to choose his fate. You will spare him.”

He looked back again, at the crowd baying for blood.

“Would it save him?”

“Not to do it _wouldn’t_ save him.”

“And when he’s dead, what becomes of me?”

“If he lives, so do you.”

“Not if _they_ get to me.”

“Then don’t let them.”

The crowd was rising to a fever pitch, the accusations rising higher.

“If you let him die, I will not hesitate to kill you. His life is the only reason you are still standing.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“What choice do you have?”

He grimaced.

_“Now!” called the Crier, “Prince Humperdinck! We await nothing more than your decision! Shall we pardon this criminal, or shall he be punished in accordance with the law!?”_

She pressed the sword point to his chest, and he stepped back, pressing up to the railing, and… He turned.

_“I declare,” called Humperdinck, raising one hand up with the words, “that this man be…”_

He paused, as if deliberating on whether it was truly worth his life to spare Westley. The moment stretched, on and on, and…

 _“Finish it,”_ she said, and prodded him in the back with the tip of the sword. The motion provoked no wince, no response. Instead… He fell, forwards, his body slipping over the rail, without so much as twitch of resistance.

She stepped forward, as the crowd fell silent, screams rising from below.

Humperdinck stared sightlessly, unmoving, from below her, a blur of red on his face, then, another blotch; not blood, but… She glanced down; the spilled wine of his flask had made its way to the edge of the balcony, and was trickling down on him where he lay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zoom in on Humperdinck's face. Record scratch.  
> "Yup, that's me. You're probably wondering how I ended up in this position. Well, it all started back in the summer of '69."


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT's yesterday night.  
> Vizzini escapes jail, and secures his escape in the most secure way he knows how to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I struggled to think of how to handle Vizzini in this story; in the original, he simply died, and I contemplated having him thrown to the eels on the way back to Florin. Yet he still survived. I considered having a chapter where he had his own battle of wits with Humperdinck, and, one way or another, still loses. Yet he was just a bit too useful for that.  
> And now... Well, Vizzini knows the score.

“What is it?”

“Does one of you have the key to this cell?”

“I do,” said one of the guards.

“Excellent. Please unlock the door.”

They stared at him, seemingly not processing the words.

_“What?”_

“Please unlock the door,” he repeated.

“ _Why?_ ” asked the other.

“So that I may leave.”

There was a long, long silence.

One guard laughed, half-bewildered, as the other gave him an uncertain look.

“This is not a joke,” said Vizzini, putting a hand up to forestall the question, “Why, I am deathly serious about this.”

“You can’t just expect us to _let you go.”_

“On the contrary! It would be wrong of you not to.”

“How do you figure?” said one guard, leaning back, clearly finding the conversation entertaining.

“Are you familiar with the terms by which the Prince placed me here?”

They glanced at each other.

“Do tell.”

“The undersigned,” said Vizzini, “ _which is of course me,_ shall be confined to a suitable location for a period not exceeding one year, after which time he shall be free to leave.”

It wasn’t _exactly_ what he’d signed; the original had sounded far more incriminating.

“Okay? The Prince said ‘not exceeding’ but I doubt he intended _two hours._ ”

“Oh- ho ho, no, of course not,” said Vizzini, mustering up the most realistic laugh he could. “Doubtless, he intended a significantly incarceration. I aim to raise my concerns about the _second_ half of the clause.”

“The second half?”

“ _A suitable location,”_ he said, adding just an _edge_ of condescension. “Though I didn’t _commit_ the heinous act, I was still very close to it. I am, in short, a criminal of the _second_ most heinous variety. Yet, look, if you will, at my accommodations!”

The guards, now mostly silent, stepped closer, and observed the quite comfortable cell.

“Nicer than _my_ room,” muttered one of them.

“ _Exactly!_ ” said Vizzini. “I am confined to this cell as a punishment, and yet the cell is finer than your own home as a man of good standing. Obviously, this is wrong. Therefore, I would like to go to the Prince, and petition him that my room be stripped of its luxuries.”

“Ah,” said one guard, and nodded, pulling the keys from their chain.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said the other, putting his hand over to stop his fellow, “if we do that, you’ll just run away.”

Vizzini tried to keep an appropriate air of mortification on his face. “How could I? I would leave as a man of no means, into a harsh and uncaring world! No criminal would willingly subject themselves to such a thing. But, though my past actions were those of a criminal, those I take now are out of a commitment to justice! Ergo, either I am newly an honest man, who would never lie to you, or I am still a criminal, in which case I could not force myself to face the harsh fate that would await me in the world outside.”

He could see their lips moving silently, as they tried to find something wrong with his flawless logic.

One guard held the key hesitantly towards the door, then paused, turning to his fellow, a moment of silent consternation passing among them.

“And,” he continued, slipping his hands through the bars, “as the purpose of locking me here is as a punishment, then leaving would only subject me to further torment, meaning that,” he slipped the key from the man’s hand, silently starting to look for the keyhole, “if I _were_ to leave, it could _only_ be as the action of an honest man, as it would make my punishment worse. Yet, as an honest man, I say now that I will _not_ leave, meaning that I am honorbound not to! Thus, no matter what you believe of me, you know that I will not leave. And, since there is no reason for me to leave my cell if I were an honest man (as escape would simply make my life worse),” he found the keyhole, and twisted, “you know that I must be an honest man!”

They stood there, silently flabbergasted as he stepped from the cell.

“Now,” he said, “Where is the Prince to be found on such a night, that I may make my case to him?”

“I- Uh-“ They stared. “He’s in his office. You’ve been there often enough, haven’t you?”

“I have!” he said, stepping past them to the exit. “ _Thank you,_ for your understanding and cooperation. I shall seek the Prince’s justice, and should return within 10 minutes at most.”

And, without a further word, he was out of the room.

Now, with any luck, they wouldn’t think to question it for the next 20. If he was _unlucky_ , then they’d be after him in five. Either way, their first instinct would probably be to go to the Prince’s office, but that alone wouldn’t be enough to catch him.

Roberts was away, being tortured for a confession, and if Vizzini was right, that meant that the Count would be with him, trying to finally break his will.

He cut left in a hallway, making certain that he walked calmly and nonchalantly; no prisoner would walk so freely through the halls, so clearly, he must not be a prisoner.

The Count had an office within the walls of the keep himself, but that would be locked while he was away. But, as was so often the case, there was a way around that.

He climbed down the steps, and into the areas generally patrolled by the servants.

_Now, the Count was clearly the Prince’s spymaster. So, like any good spymaster, he had to have poisons. The Prince was cautious, and would expect that there might be poison in play the very instant Vizzini was reported missing._

He stepped into a small broom closet, glanced around, and, sure enough, there was a key ring hanging in an unobtrusive corner. He took it.

_But the Prince was an expert tracker; he’d caught them in Lowtown, and he had to know that Vizzini was a threat as long as he lived. Ergo, the Prince had to die. So, despite his expectation of danger, Vizzini would have to catch him off-guard all the same. Now, the problem was that the Prince had a food-taster, and would surely never be the first to eat his own food. Except, of course, that there was a flask that Vizzini had long-since seen him to drink from. A flask that, of course, he kept on his person at all times._

Vizzini went back up the stairs, keys now placed neatly in his breast pocket. The Count’s office would be just down the hall.

 _And yet… He had to refill it. Ergo, he had to refill it_ from _somewhere. And the only place Vizzini could imagine him keeping a suitable replacement would be in his room. Ergo, he needed to enter his room, and find the poison. Eventually, Humperdinck would refill the flask, and, upon taking a drink from it, hopefully succumb to poison and die._

He paused, turned, and saw nobody. He was unseen.

He pulled the keyring free, and checked the set of them… There was little indication which went to which keyhole, but a few tries, and the door swung free. He stepped inside and pulled it closed behind him.

Rugen’s office was dark, now, with only a tiny window providing a glimmer of moonlight.

It was enough.

Vizzini rapidly glanced across the surroundings; reports, papers, ink, a half finished set of notes about ‘The Machine,’ about which Vizzini had heard much, and been told little.

Poisons would be… In the drawers?

He pulled.

Locked.

There wouldn’t be a matching key on the ring, but…

He reached up to a small dagger, rightly sized to be a letter-opener.

Now, he was no locksmith, but…

A little wiggling, and the drawer pulled free.

He didn’t bother to restrain a bit of triumph.

Now… Arsenic, yes, of course, and cyanide, and strychnine, and…

He smiled, surprised and please.

“Iocane powder,” he said aloud. He’d heard stories of the stuff, but his experience had never required anything so potent.

Well, no reason to skimp on another man’s poison.

He pulled a small paper tube of the stuff, and secreted it away in a pocket.

He closed the drawer, momentarily tried to click the latch back into place, and gave up.

With luck, by the time Rugen next checked his poisons, the Prince would already be dead.

He stepped back to the door, listened, and…

Nothing. It was late at night; the Prince might still be awake, but few others.

He stepped forth, and continued on his way.

Up more steps, down another hall, and there was the door. He glanced at the lock, and this time it was only the second key he tried. He stepped inside, and silently locked the door behind him.

The Prince’s room was blessedly silent.

He stepped quickly to the man’s private desk.

It was only a matter of a few seconds’ rummaging to find the quarter-empty bottle of wine.

Vizzini grinned.

It was all too easy.

_Iocane: A poisoner’s dream, refined from some particularly deadly venomous snake in Australia. Odorless, tasteless, and notoriously easy to dissolve in liquid._

He emptied the whole tube into the bottle, replaced the cork, and closed the drawer.

Now, to escape from-

 _“Well,”_ said Rugen, outside, _“Get your rest, hm? If you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything.”_

His eyes widened, as he looked around for places to hide.

“I suppose you _would_ know what you’re talking about,” said Humperdinck with a sigh, and there was the sound of a key clicking in a lock.

The door opened.

Vizzini, now keeping his breath soft and even where he lay under the bed, blessed his cautious and cunning mind for thinking to lock the door after him; had Humperdinck entered a moment sooner, or had he suspected an intruder, he would surely have searched, would have found him…

He lay there, putting every bit of his mind to the problem of escape. He supposed he _could_ simply stay here all night, and hope that he made no noise in his sleep, but to trust a sleeping man was foolish, even if that sleeping man were him. He could take his knife, and… Ah, but he’d lost that the moment they’d taken him prisoner. He could take _Humperdinck’s_ knife…

There was an almost genteel knock at the door.

 _“Excuse me sir,”_ came Rugen’s voice.

“What is it?” said Humperdinck, already halfway through removing his jacket.

“The prisoner has escaped.”

“What!? Which one?”

“The Sicilian.”

Humperdinck muttered something under his breath.

“How?”

“He convinced the guards to set him free.”

“Then have them whipped and set about _finding_ him. Search the castle’s grounds, but do not search beyond the walls, you understand?”

“Why so, my lord?”

“As far as those outside of this castle’s walls are to know, none have escaped, and _certainly_ not to have escaped the night before an auspicious execution, you understand? I will accept no rumors as to a false identity, are we clear.”

“You could tell them that Roberts was held elsewhere, my lord.”

“And risk them searching for the Pit of Despair?”

“As you say.”

There was silence, as Humperdinck silently pulled his clothes back on.

“And regardless of whether he is found, station guards at my door.”

“Of course, my lord.”

There was the sound of boots on stone, and Rugen was away.

“I suppose I rather set myself up for it,” muttered Humperdinck, and, taking up his knife, stepped through the door. The lock clicked, and Vizzini crawled free.

Now… How to escape?

…

The night was a tense one. For well over an hour, deep into the night, the guards searched high and low in the castle, room by room.

Some 20 minutes later, Humperdinck returned to his room, leaving two guards posted outside with orders to let none enter unless it be Rugen himself, regardless of their justifications.

By then, Vizzini was no longer in the room.

Some 40 minutes later, they checked the broom closet, and found nothing out of the ordinary.

By then, Vizzini had slipped from the very same side-gate he had entered for the purpose faking the Princess’ death.

An hour later, and they found a door left strangely unlocked.

By then, Vizzini was ten minutes away, cursing the cool breeze, and making for the nearest place that _wasn’t_ Florin’s main city.

11 hours later, and Humperdinck, having drained the last of his flask before midnight, took another draught from it, freshly refilled that morning.

And now… _Right_ now, Humperdinck lay there, eyes glassy as he stared back up at a nameless apparition.

And Vizzini? Vizzini was in a small tavern a town over, eyes bloodshot and tired, but voice and wits as strong as ever as he attempted to barter his way onto the first ship leaving Florin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a meme in here of Vizzini's face on that one guy tapping at his head, with the caption, 'Can't hunt you down to eliminate you as a threat if he's already dead.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buttercup finally reunites with Westley. Ryan makes sure that his new acquaintance has no reason to face any of the unpleasantness that must surely be happening nearer to the execution.

Humperdinck was missing, and Westley had no idea why, but… At the balcony, he saw a blur of crimson, then, the flash of a sword.

 _It had to be her, and if that was where_ she _was._

The executioner was standing with his axe, nonplussed by the sudden change in his surroundings. The guards stared at where, until moments ago, Humperdinck had stood to pronounce his fate.

His hands were bound, but the chain was loose in his captor’s hands.

_Now._

He bolted forward, leaping from the raised platform, and for a single moment, he was loose, free and flying. The chain caught, but pulled free, and suddenly, he was among the stampeding crowd, and however much they had hated him moments ago, the sudden appearance of an assassin had rattled them, sent them running.

He pushed against the crowd, barely registering the shouts of the guards who had realized he was running. He needed his hands free, and for that… He _wrenched,_ determined that either the metal give first, or his hand did.

The sensation of his left hand slipping through the cuff was accompanied by a horrifying _wrench_ that left his thumb almost numb, twisted out of position, a horrifying gash seeping blood where the metal had cut into it. Westley barely felt it; his body had been nearly dead, and whatever strange concoction the Albino had forced down his throat hadn’t changed that. His body had given up on pain, for the moment.

With a similarly sickening _wrench,_ he forced his thumb back into position, and kept running, left hand clenching and unclenching, the motion strange.

\--

Ryan leaned back into the chair. It was hardly cushioned, but his pain on the steps had only been partially faked.

“You don’t suppose we should be back on our way up, do you?” said Alys, glancing back at the way they’d come in.

He sighed. “I’m sure the Princess knows the way well enough; I’d hate to trouble you to escort me all the way up after her. And truth be told, I’m afraid I have little enough to add to what my associates bring with them.”

“Ah- Nonsense, sir, why, I’m sure whatever news you brought for the Prince, they’d benefit from having your help to deliver it.”

“You are too kind.”

“My mother always said there was no such thing as ‘too kind’ and I stand by it.” She seemed to consider the situation for a moment. “I’ll tell you what, I have a spare bottle of wine I’ve been holding onto for the past week. I’ve been looking for someone to share it with…?”

“And you would bless me with such a thing? Well, far be it from me to refuse a drink with a fine lady such as yourself.”

\--

Westley had jumped. She surely only had seconds before he was set upon by the guards and killed without hesitation.

She needed a way down, and-

A banner hung from the balcony, not long enough to reach the ground, but closer than anything else she could reach.

There was no more time to think. She slashed out, once, twice, and on the third cut, the rope to her left came loose, the banner hanging down.

She switched to the other side, and vaulted the railing, hanging for a moment as she grabbed hold of the rope.

She let herself slide, down, and down, and-

As she hung, the drop felt massive, but-

She let out a breath, and dropped the rest of the way, landing into a roll.

Westley had been making his way towards her; she needed to meet him on the way. The crowd had largely dispersed, and as she pushed forward.

And there, bursting forth from the crowd, trailing the chain that had bound him, was Westley.

Something burned in Buttercup’s chest at the sight, though whether it was fury or love, or pride or joy, she didn’t know.

He was hotly pursued, now, the guards making better headway against the crowd than he had. One broke away, rushing after him, a sword in his hands and murder in his eyes. Westley was ahead, but not so much that- The guard’s foot came down on the trailing chain, and Westley stumbled to the ground, mere feet in front of her.

She stepped forward, and the guard, still aiming for Westley, never saw the sword coming.

The sword clattered to the ground, and for a moment, the other guards slowed, seeming to realize that their defenseless prisoner was not so undefended. There was a shared look between them, and, now a bit more cautious, they began to spread out, surrounding the two of them.

Buttercup grimaced beneath the mask, hand tightening around her sword. Westley was still on the ground, hand moving almost aimlessly near the fallen sword, as if trying fruitlessly to pick it up.

 _“Farm Boy,”_ she said, through gritted teeth. “Help me cut a path out.”

At the name, Westley shuddered, and then… His hand finally caught the handle, and he stood, eyes mad, body shaking, but resolve and voice steady.

_“As you wish.”_

One hand wrapped around the chain, the other on the sword, he stood at her back.

They _would_ cut a path free. Or they would die trying.

“So?” she said, addressing the men massing around them. “Who will fight the Dread Pirate Roberts? Who will fight me? The first man to step forward will die, and the second, and the third.”

A shared glance again. There had to be, what, 20 of them? 30? More? Too many.

There was a shared _look_ between the guards, but… Who would attack first, but who would run at such an advantage?

They needed to make it to the edge of the city, but the distance… It was too far…

Silently Buttercup edged slightly away from the keep.

And then all hell broke loose.

One brave, foolish guard stepped forward, and before she had finished dispatching him, another was stepping forward to her other side.

She had been training with the blade for 5 years, almost obsessively. These men hadn’t. Her blade was a blur, cutting through them, finding the gaps in their armor with scarcely a moment of respite.

But… There were still too many. There were too many for her, but worse, there were too many for Westley.

It was only some hidden sense that alerted her that he had fallen, for the sound had been hidden by the clashing of swords. She spun, slashing away at a man who had been about to finish Westley, and only narrowly avoided being impaled from behind.

Westley was struggling to get to his feet, seemingly only half conscious, and scarcely able to find an moment that would not leave him horribly vulnerable.

She spun, and for the first time, felt the slash of a blade across her side, barely a graze, but still too much.

They seemed to smell blood, and as she parried one stab, she knew that another slash would-

A resounding _clang_ rang out, even cutting through the noise. The sound of a blow that had not fallen.

 _“Up you get my friend, and we_ w _ill_ c _all it even, yes!?”_

She barely had the chance to see his face, but as he pulled Westley upright, there was a burning fire in Inigo’s eyes, and a grin on his face that did not fear death.

“ _C_ ome then!” he cried, spinning back to the guards, who seemed shocked and taken aback at his sudden appearance, but were already filling in the hole he had cut through their ranks. “And let there be _blood!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have gathered from the structure of the previous chapters, we'll be going back in time to see how *Inigo* got here in the next chapter..


	23. Prepare to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His name is Inigo Montoya.  
> Rugen killed his father.

By the time Buttercup had told him to go, Inigo had already been in motion. He had stepped forward, a second from pulling out his sword, and…

No… He had to wait just a bit longer. His father had to be avenged, and he had to be avenged properly. If, by some chance, this man did not have six fingers on his right hand, or, perhaps, if he was not the Six-fingered Man who had killed his father… Inigo trusted Fezzik with his life, but if some little detail had slipped…

The man walked slowly down the stairs, and Inigo followed, internally gauging the terrain for a battle. Wherever he confronted the man, made sure of himself, he needed it to be somewhere where the advantage was his; fighting left-handed was all well and good for practice, but here, now, it would be an affront to his father’s memory to risk his victory, even for pride.

The man walked quickly, and did not seem to notice Inigo, even as he reached the landing.

“And there you are, finally,” he said, even, but cold, “you were to escort the prisoner, were you not?”

There was a muttering of assent, as Inigo stepped down behind him.

“And now…”

He seemed to notice the guards seeing behind him.

_Four guards, and as the man turned…_

It had been years. Decades. He’d been a child then, barely old enough to understand his father’s business, barely old enough to work the bellows, and so proud of himself that he was old enough even for that.

Age had shadowed his face, and there was grey at his temples, but Inigo scarcely needed to look down, barely needed to see his right hand, to recognize the man who had killed his father.

He pulled his sword even as Inigo did, stepping back into the squad of guards.

“Ah. I must say, I am impressed that you have made it into the castle.”

Inigo had no intention of responding to the pleasantries. He already knew what the last words were that he wanted this man to hear.

_“My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”_

This seemed to give him pause, but only for a moment.

“Kill him,” he said, simply.

The guards rushed forward, but this was the very moment Inigo had trained all his life for.

The fourth guard was dead before the first hit the ground.

 _“My name is Inigo Montoya,”_ he repeated, _“You killed my father. Prepare-_

Rugen _bolted,_ cutting Inigo off mid-sentence, forcing him to give chase.

The problem, of course, the biggest problem, was that the man knew where he was going, knew his way around the castle, Inigo would be close behind, then he would cut to one side, off down another path, down another set of stairs, back up and around. For a moment, Inigo would lose him, and lose precious time trying to find where he’d lost him.

The castle seemed to supply endless hallways, and endless doors for the man to slam shut behind him, but Inigo… Inigo knew that he was faster, that however fast this man was, that _he_ was the one who would last longer. Nothing could stop him.

The Count slammed a door behind him, and Inigo barely slowed as he opened it again. He was inside and there, seemingly having given up on running, was-

There was a blur of silver, and Inigo’s eyes widened, as he managed to comprehend what he was seeing a bare instant before the knife lodged in his stomach.

He staggered back, and there was a dead moment, one where he could almost believe everything was fine, and then the pain struck in earnest, burning, blinding.

He fell to his knees, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.

“I do remember you, of course,” said the Count. “Or… Not you, precisely, but I could never forget such a fine sword. I’ll take it from your corpse, of course. No use letting it go to waste.”

Inigo scarcely understood the words.

 _“Father,”_ he said, the room blurring around him, _“Father, forgive me.”_

“That would have been… 10 years? 20, perhaps. I was young, impulsive. I wouldn’t leave survivors, now, nor let you keep a sword that should have been mine. Far too sloppy, and too risky.”

 _“I… I found him,”_ he continued, _“But… I couldn’t…”_

The Count almost cracked a smile. “Yet I can’t admit any regret. This must be _particularly_ painful for you. Tell me, is it the physical pain or the mental that is worse?”

Inigo almost flopped to the side, catching his shoulder on the doorframe.

_“My… My name…”_

“Tenacious. A shame I won’t be able to put you through The Machine,” said Rugen, lifting his sword. “Practically dead already, and still trying to win. If you aren’t careful, that sense of vengeance will get you into trouble one of these days.”

_“My name is Inigo Montoya…”_

The Count’s sword flashed out, and Inigo, one foot barely under him, _twitched_ , a weak imitation of a parry that only managed to deflect the stab to his shoulder.

There was no pain now. His whole body seemed numb, the world around him blurry except for the man before him.

_“You killed my father…”_

The sword stabbed out again, the Count’s expression faintly surprised.

He knocked it away, earning himself a cut to his other arm.

He didn’t seem to be breathing anymore, all of his efforts going to his hand to keep him alive, and his legs, to bring himself upright.

_“Prepare to die.”_

Rugen no longer seemed amused. He slashed out again, and again as Inigo parried.

He was on his feet. He was on his feet, and the Count was so close. Close enough to-

Inigo stabbed forward, and as Rugen blocked, the clash of their blades shuddered up his arm, and it seemed to Inigo that the blade in his side no longer mattered, might as well never have happened. He grinned, the expression tinted with mania.

_“Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya-_

_“Stop saying that!”_

_He lunged, and the Count narrowly managed to sidestep._

_-You killed my father. Prepare to die.”_

_The Count would die. Inigo knew it, now, as surely as he knew his name._

_The Count tried to fight back, but Inigo had been training his whole life for this moment. No amount of desperation, nor fear, would turn him back, now. The Count was retreating, unable to fully disengage for fear of an unguarded reprisal. Inigo saw the wall grow closer behind him, and pressed his advantage._

_His back was to the wall, now, and there was nowhere to run._

_“My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my Father! Prepare to die!” The words came out in a furious frenzy._

_“No,”_ said the Count, and his sword was still raised, but he knew when he was outmatched.

_“No? And what would you offer me? Money?” The sword slashed out, cutting a line across the Count’s cheek._

_“Of course.”_

_“And power? Promise me that.” Another cut, across the other cheek._

_“Yes, of course. All I have and more.”_

_“Everything I ask for.”_

_“Name your price. I’ll get it for you.”_

Inigo paused, for a bare instant, and the manic grin dropped from his face.

“I want my father back, you son of a bitch.”

Rugen’s eyes widened, but by the time he understood what was coming, the sword was already through his heart.

The moment seemed to stretch out, and Inigo could see the life drain from his eyes, and, as he stepped back, let the man fall, he felt… Peaceful, almost. He had given his life a single purpose, for years, and now, that purpose had finished.

He could do anything.

He could leave, or…

The sounds of battle filtered into his ears, clashing swords.

The thoughts ticked through his mind slowly, methodically.

His associates had meant to save a man with a dozen, perhaps more, guards on him.

If there was fighting, surely it was with those guards.

A fight of one against ten, or perhaps two against thirty…

The Princess had brought him to this point, the Man in Black had saved his life. Both had brought him here; without either one of them, he would never have made it this far.

He gripped the sword in his hand.

_He would not avenge them._

_They would not need to be avenged._

He started running.

…

_He didn’t wait, didn’t stop to announce his presence as he came upon the swarm of guards. He simply cut his way through them, already most of the way through by the time they realized he was there._

_And there, at the center…_

_He lunged forward, deflecting a blow with such force that the sword flew from its owner’s hands._

_There, on the ground…_

_“Up you get my friend, and we_ w _ill_ c _all it even, yes!?”_

_Yes. Who better to fight beside?_

_“Come then! And let there be blood!”_


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buttercup, Westley, and Inigo fight to stay alive against deadly odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time.

Three warriors stood against 40 armored guards, blades flashing as, one by one, their enemies fell. An incautious lunge, though it might scratch one of them, was nonetheless mortally punished.

One fell, then two, three, and more.

There were more guards, of course; they would be guarding elsewhere, out in Florin, surely hearing that there was a fight at the execution, the town square becoming a battleground.

 _“This way,”_ hissed Buttercup, pushing, just a bit, against the thronging mass of their enemies.

Westley, to one side, was shaking, body barely listening to him, but listen it did, desperate but obedient. Inigo, at her other side, fought with the ferocity of a man who does not fear death, his blade a silver blur in the air.

They followed, and slowly, painfully slowly, they pushed away from the gate, out towards the town.

More guards fell, and Buttercup was forced to step over a body as she cut her way through.

Her arms were beginning to burn from the strain of facing half a dozen men at once, and Westley had to be worse than she was.

Another two, on the ground.

She pushed forward, and two more guards split aside, and for the first time, she could see a path free.

She drew deeper still on the strength she had spent the last five years building, and with an effort, parted the crowd of guards.

 _“Now!”_ she cried, and practically dove forward, hauling Westley after her.

She parried one blade, but, even as another managed a nasty gash across her stomach, the three of them were out, and not a moment too soon; the street narrowed, here, and as she turned, they were almost a wall.

More guards fell, and others ran, finally seeming to realize that their lives would be forfeit if they stayed.

And then, it seemed almost as if they hit a standstill.

The best swordsmen among the guards were all that remained, finally all fighting at once, seven against three. It was no mean feat to even survive, at such a time, but survive she would, even if-

One man among them finally seemed to realize that mere force of arms wouldn’t be enough.

Westley barely had time to cry out before he was pulled off his feet by the chain around one hand. He fell, sword falling to the ground.

Buttercup swore under her breath, and lunged forward to keep them occupied so they wouldn’t have the space to finish him, but she was out of position now, fighting for her life.

Inigo managed to stab another of them, but another, armored and daring, pushed forward, slamming his shoulder into Inigo’s chest, sending him falling back to the cobbles. Inigo struggled, clearly trying to regain his feet, but seemed dazed and confused, and by the blood she could see on his shirt, this was not his first wound.

Buttercup fell back, praying that their attention would stay focused on her, that she could find _some_ way to prevail where the three of them together had not.

To her relief and terror, they _did_ ignore Westley, and she was beset by six at once.

She could only survive, and even that she could not do unscathed. Her shoulders, her arms, even one slash that narrowly missed her eye. She parried one, and-

There was a succession of _thuds_ as the six remaining men rammed, one after the other, into each other. Then, before they even had a moment to realize what had happened, they were lifted high into the air, and then, after a moment, they came crashing back down to earth in a heap.

Fezzik, who, for a man of his size had gone completely unnoticed during the fighting, nodded, clearly pleased by his handiwork.

He looked down at Westley and Inigo, and frowned.

“They don’t look so good,” he rumbled.

She looked down.

Inigo was bleeding into the stones, and Westley had gone very still indeed.

“No,” she said, kneeling down beside them.

_Inigo was on his back, and now, she finally realized, the dagger she had assumed was belted at his side was actually piercing his stomach._

He groaned.

Otherwise, he seemed largely unharmed.

And Westley…

Her heart sank as she looked at him, pale, and already cold. She placed a hand over his heart, and… Nothing; whatever strength he had been using, it seemed to have finally failed him.

Dead.

_But that wasn’t right._

_Westley couldn’t be dead. She had sworn to avenge him when he had died before. She had come to rescue him when she had discovered he was still alive._

_She would not watch him die now._

But what choice did she have?

He was already dead, and however hard she fought, the reaper had a knack for dodging even the sharpest of blades.

Unless…

“Pick them up,” she said, standing.

Fezzik nodded, hoisting them easily, one over each shoulder.

“We need to go that way,” she said, jerking her head. She turned, for a moment, to the pile of guards who were groaning, and vaguely making to regain their feet.

 _“If you follow us, it will go poorly for you,”_ she said, simply, and turned to follow Fezzik.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buttercup tries to keep more people from dying.

Inigo let out a groan, shifting, and seeming only to grow more pained with the motion. Fezzik’s right shoulder was surely stained red now, and his left… Westley was as still as he had been.

But, as they passed through the forest, along the little dirt path, Buttercup could see the hovel ahead of them, the flickering light inside.

She stepped up to the door, and rapped sharply on it.

There was no response.

She knocked again, more insistently.

 _“What, what, what!?”_ came a grating voice.

A panel in the door slid open, and there, on the other side, was the pale, wrinkled face of an old man.

“Miracle Max?” It was barely a question.

He rolled his eyes. “Excuse _you,_ I’m retired, so it’s just Max. Who wants to know?”

“I need a miracle.”

“Ha! Yeah, you and everybody else, what else is new? Like I said, I’m retired, and I was already fired before that. You’re looking at a dud miracle worker; I’d probably kill whoever you wanted me to miracle.”

“You can hardly make it worse; he’s already dead.”

Max blinked.

“He is, huh? I’ll take a look, bring him in.”

The door swung open, and the Buttercup stepped in, followed almost immediately by Fezzik.

“Put him there,” said Max, gesturing at a long, low table.

Buttercup tapped Westley, for Fezzik’s benefit.

Max squinted up at Inigo.

“What about him?”

“He doesn’t need a miracle, yet, just a good physician.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they all say that. You got money?”

“A few hundred, and I can get more if you need it. Can you save him?”

“I haven’t taken the job,” said Max, staring down at Westley. He pressed a finger to Westley’s throat, paused, and nodded, as if he’d expected the result. He poked at one arm, then the other. He leaned in close, sniffed at him, and almost recoiled.

“ _Whoof,_ ” he said aloud, “bad day to be him, huh? That’s two miracles at _least_ to keep him alive.”

“I imagine so,” said Buttercup, hoping the man would get on with his business.

“What happened to him?”

“Tortured, I think, and almost executed.”

“Huh. Criminal, then,” said Max, continuing his examination. “What crime?”

“Piracy.”

“No kidding, eh?” said Max, “when did you say he was almost executed?”

“An hour ago, at most.”

Max froze, mouth silently moving. A grin slowly spread across his face. “You said you had money?”

“Yes.”

“I’m on the job,” he said. “VALERIE! Get out here, we’ve got miracles to do!”

 _“What?”_ came a woman’s voice from a back room. “Since when?”

“Since the Dread Pirate Roberts showed up on our doorstep!”

“What!?”

“Yeah, you remember, the Prince was gonna execute him!?”

A woman, clearly the ‘Valerie’ he’d called out for, bustled from the back.

She looked down at Westley.

“You wanna do a miracle on a pirate?” she asked, clearly confused.

“Come on,” he said, almost pleading, “the man The Prince was gonna execute to show off?”

“It looks like The Prince isn’t gonna get to execute him either way!” said Valerie.

Max almost absently tossed a roll of bandages to Buttercup. “Patch him up. _He_ didn’t look too bad if you can stop the bleeding.”

He turned back to Valerie. “Yeah, well they got money.”

“I thought you were retired!”

“I thought you wanted me to come back out of it!”

“Yeah, well-“ Valerie turned, and her voice was suddenly much calmer, “You realize of course it’s nothing against you folks, I just don’t want our first foray back into the business to be helping the most notorious pirate on the seas today, you understand.”

Buttercup, quickly extracting the blade from Inigo’s torso, began to wrap him up. “Would it help if I said that he was planning to give up on piracy after this?”

“I’ve heard that from a _lot_ of pirates,” said Valerie, waving a finger at them, “and most of them didn’t mean it. What makes this one any different?”

“Me,” said Buttercup, “he’ll stay with me, after this. Or, if he won’t, I will follow him.”

“Well, that’s a new one. You the first mate?”

She shook her head.

“Not a bad start... But! I’ll tell you what; why don’t we ask him? See what he has to say about it.”

Fezzik frowned. “Isn’t he dead?”

“Mostly-“ Valerie cut herself off, and looked questioningly at Max, who nodded.

“Mostly dead.”

 _“Mostly_ dead,” said Valerie, leaning down to grab a set of bellows, “which, as we know, is slightly alive.”

“So, you wanna ask him, or should I?”

“Ah, you do it.”

Max shrugged, and began pumping air into Westley’s lungs.

_“Hello in there!? Hello!? If we do this, you gonna stop doing the piracy!?”_

He pulled the bellows free, and Valerie pressed lightly down on his chest.

_The words, strangled, pulled their way forth._

_“True… Love…”_

“Well,” said Max, seemingly unimpressed, “and here I was looking for a yes or no.”

 _“He's talking about me,”_ said Buttercup. “If I ask him to give up piracy, he will. If you make that the price for his life, then so be it. I will accept, and so will he. Please.”

There was a long, long second of silence.

“I’m in.”

“Ha! Took you long enough,” said Max, already carrying an armful of what seemed to be strange herbs, and unidentifiable bits of things. He pressed an open book into Valerie’s hands. “See that? We’re gonna need a more mud. And…” he pulled forth a tiny root, and pressed it into Westley’s mouth, under his tongue, “gotta make sure he doesn’t die before we get to do the miracle.”

Buttercup resumed her bandaging on Inigo, and, to her relief, it seemed to be working, the bandage successfully stanching the flow. It seemed, from the way he was groaning, eyes flickering vaguely, as if he would pull through, eventually.

And like that, the minutes passed by. Occasionally, Max, or Valerie, would tell Buttercup to grab the little bowl in the back, with the shells in it, or ask Fezzik to pull something from the roof of the hovel that they’d placed their a week ago and didn’t have the time to grab now. They lit small fires, set tiny cauldrons to bubble, and through it all, Westley seemed as dead as ever on the table.

Then, there came a knock at the door.

Max grumbled.

“Get that, and tell them we’re busy.”

Buttercup, trying to surreptitiously clean the blood from her hands, stepped to the door, and pulled the hatch aside.

A burly man stood outside, armed and armored.

“Yes?” she said.

“We’re looking for Roberts,” said the man, arms crossed.

 _We._ She glanced past, and indeed, there were another half-dozen men behind him.

Not, if she was right, the same guards as before, but more than had been remaining then.

“He’s not here,” she said.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, and pushed on the door. There was a metallic clink as the latch caught.

“I’m afraid the owners of this home are far too busy to allow you in.”

“And why’s that?”

“You know whose house this is?”

The man snorted. “Obviously. Everyone knows where old Miracle Max lives. What’s _he_ doing that’s got him so busy?”

“A miracle.”

“Uh huh. So we’re supposed to believe that there’s someone stupid enough to ask for help from a disgraced miracle man, and that they came along just before we did.”

“Go away!” shouted Max.

“Ah?” said Valerie, seemingly too engrossed in what he was doing to listen.

“We won’t be long, old man!” Shouted the guard outside. “Just got to make sure you didn’t take a job healing the pirate who killed the Prince!”

“I heard he was poisoned,” said Buttercup.

“Stabbed by an assassin, actually,” said the guard. “Stabbed and shoved over the edge of the balcony, by one of Roberts’ crew. Now let us in.”

“It’s a delicate operation!” protested Max, grinding something with a mortar and pestle.

“And it’s the most notorious pirate there’s ever been that we’re looking for!” said the man, and pushed forward, _slamming_ his shoulder against the door, rattling it on its hinges.

This place wasn’t meant for such an assault, and Buttercup could already tell that a few more like that, and the door would give way.

She shut the panel, and jerked her head, urgently, at Fezzik. He nodded, closing the distance in a few steps.

She made a motion with her hand, and Fezzik, seeming to grasp the picture, braced the door with one massive hand.

Buttercup slid the panel aside again, as the man slammed against the door. It rattled, but Fezzik’s hand seemed to cushion the worst of it.

“I don’t suppose you could wait until the miracle is done, could you?” she said. “If you are as certain that he is in here as I am that he is not, it loses you nothing to wait a few minutes.”

“At least ten more minutes,” corrected Max from the back.

“People saw him setting off this way,” said one guard, “and there’s nobody else around for miles.”

 _Slam_.

“Perhaps he made for another town,” said Buttercup.

That gave him pause. “No, surely not,” he said, eventually, and _slam._ “The Count had him on The Machine. A man would _need_ a miracle after that.”

“I… Heard that he was fighting as they ran away.”

Again, a pause, and then another _slam._ Even with Fezzik’s hand there, the door was beginning to give way.

“Well… Maybe, but I _know_ I heard that one of them was badly hurt as they left. The only physician they would be able to trust is the man in this building. The only man who hates the Prince enough to save the man who killed the Princess”

Buttercup took some solace in the fact that this man hadn’t yet concluded that _she_ was part of the crew that had brought him here.

“If his crew came to save him, surely they brought a physician of their own.”

_Slam._

“Gentlemen!” came a voice. “I come bearing urgent news!”

The guards turned as one, to face the newcomer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to work out how this chapter would work, since it didn't feel like Buttercup would take Inigo's approach of 'oh, this is a noble cause, sir, his wife and-' whatever else. And, if Max found out that the Prince was using his execution as a prestigious event (or that Buttercup was blamed for the assassination), he'd probably be willing to take the job simply because he dislikes Humperdinck that much. And then I was like... What if Max isn't the one who needs the convincing?


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guards continue their menacing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those wondering if Vizzini was going to make a surprise reappearance, I'm afraid not; he's still putting as much distance between himself and Florin as possible, because he has a working self-preservation instinct.

“What?”

“I’m afraid you’ve been lied to.”

“What!?” a bit more emphatic this time.

“Just so,” said Ryan, astride a white pony, to all appearances the very image of innocence. “Roberts had his crew in town, covering his retreat with misinformation. That’s why there were so few there to rescue him.”

“Have they been caught?”

“No, but Hurlick the Cobbler saw them running to the north.”

The men glanced between themselves.

“And how are we supposed to know _you’re_ not the liar trying to get us away from him?”

“Gentlemen,” he said, awkwardly beginning to make his way off the pony, “I am no pirate. I merely wish to see justice done.”

This caused some uncertain shuffling.

“So…” said one, near the back, “then it wouldn’t be a problem for you if we just take a look inside first?”

Ryan managed to get himself over the pony’s back, and almost fell to the ground, narrowly catching himself on his cane. “I would have no personal gripe against it,” he said. “Though, that said, interrupting a miracle worker midway through the process strikes me as a poor choice. Rush a miracle, you get a bad miracle, crowd it and… Well, I’m no expert, of course, but it can’t be _good,_ can it?”

 _“If he’s in there…”_ muttered one, just loud enough for Buttercup to hear it.

 _“Then we can’t just leave him,”_ finished another.

“Get in there,” advised one in the back.

“We only need a few seconds,” said the one at the front, winding up to slam into the door again, “open the door, and we’ll be in and out before you know we were inside.”

Buttercup glanced back.

Westley lay there, still dressed just as he had been at the execution, his identity plain.

If they were quick, if they’d been thinking of it… Perhaps Fezzik could have moved him, and Inigo could have taken his place, and… But it was too late for all that.

Ryan sighed.

“Gentlemen, I see you are perfectly intelligent men, so I’ll tell you the truth. I was there when Roberts was captured; I came to see his execution. He did not kill the Princess.”

This caused a stir.

“You recall the other man the Prince captured? Honorable guards like yourselves, I’m sure you must have seen him; a Sicilian, cunning and clever. Roberts said it himself that the Princess jumped ship during the channel crossing and was eaten by the eels. It was under that Sicilian’s care that she died.”

“And we’re supposed to trust that?”

“Wait,” said one, “I was… I was there. Roberts _did_ say something about that.”

“Quite so. Pirates are a selfish bunch, as a rule, but what would it profit Roberts to kill her? He doubtless wanted the ransom, and he needed her alive for that.”

“But…” The one in the front, who seemed to have taken the de facto leader role, shook his head, “Roberts is still a notorious pirate. We can’t let him go free.”

“I’m afraid you misunderstand me,” said Ryan, and grinned, “I’m not trying to make you want to let him go, I’m just making sure you understand it’s not worth dying over. You see, I’m the man who taught The Dread Pirate Roberts to fight. Did you hear what happened in the square?”

They seemed nervous now.

Ryan planted his cane behind himself, and whipped his sword loose. “Myself alone, I could surely take half of you, and my associates inside could take the other half without issue. You are, functionally, outnumbered. Would you like to try your luck against three masters and a giant?”

Silence.

“Now, it’s a funny thing,” said Ryan, now conversational, and seemingly quite confident, “with my leg like this, you’d think I’d be less of a threat, yet it’s quite the opposite; you see, I can’t run, so I have no choice but to fight for my life. Have you ever tried to kill a cornered animal? It isn’t pretty.” He let the words sink in. “Yet, at the same time, I’d be hard pressed to chase you, if you were to run, and, if I may remind you, a concerned citizen _just_ brought you word that Roberts was last seen retreating to the north.”

A few of the guards had their hands on their weapons, but none of them seemed quite willing to draw them fully.

Ryan stepped forward, almost painfully slow, sword pointed straight at the guards, an easy grin still painting his face.

They backed away, now more sheepish than anything.

“Anyone? No? No takers?”

The guards looked among themselves, and there was the sense of a conversation not spoken aloud.

Then, very slowly, they began to retreat up the path, visibly ashamed, but none quite willing to stand against him.

Long, long seconds passed as they slowly retreated, and, eventually, Ryan sheathed his sword.

_"Where were you?"_

He turned, seeming surprised to see her. "I was making sure that fine lady didn't see you threatening Humperdinck and then go call the guards on you. I'd have come sooner, but I _am_ still a little tipsy. No sense telling the horse to gallop and then falling off."

Buttercup couldn't quite restrain a chuckle. "Of course you were."

“Now,” he said, “all that talk about not letting people in… Does that apply to a lone old man?”

Buttercup looked back, and Max absently waved the question off.

She pushed the door open.

It fell to the ground, with a loud _slam._ It seemed that the only thing holding it upright for the past few minutes had been Fezzik’s hand.

Ryan looked at it, and then walked over it, and inside.

He squinted, and…

“Ah. Two masters then, not three.” He shrugged. “Close enough. How are they?”

“Stabbed,” said Buttercup, pointing to Inigo, “and in need of a miracle,” at Westley.

“Well, I see you’re in the right place.”

She nodded, and he took a seat nearby.

“So… Humperdinck’s dead, huh? That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“No.”

“What happened?”

She explained, starting with how Inigo had gone after the Six Fingered Man, and she had threatened the Prince. In simple, succinct terms, Westley escaped, and she fought her way down to meet him. Together, and then with Inigo, they fought their way away, and then, when both of them collapsed to the ground, and she had finally been against odds that were beyond her, Fezzik had shown up.

“And you?” said Ryan, “How did you come to be there?”

Fezzik furrowed his brow. “I followed Inigo,” he said, “and then he was running away, and I couldn’t find him. I tried to find my way back, but there wasn’t anybody there! Then, I went out, and they were all in a line, so I just…” he pantomimed scooping up a row of guards and throwing them to the ground.

“I see,” said Ryan. “The right man in the right place at the right time then.”

Fezzik blinked.

“And _he…”_ he gestured, slowly, at Inigo, “he must have killed the Six-fingered Man. I can’t imagine he would have broken off the chase until one of them was dead.”

“No.”

“Well then!” he said, “A successful day all around, I should think.”

Buttercup looked at Westley, still mostly dead, and Inigo, moving only slightly where he lay.

“You know,” said Ryan, “in the long run.”

There was a long silence.

“What you said… Could you have fought them?”

He shrugged, “One at a time, maybe; it’s the turning that’s the real problem. Hard to do quickly enough with one good leg… I suppose if I could get a good wall to my back, but that’s hardly imposing.”

“Aaaaaaand,” said Max, placing a small brown lump on what looked suspiciously like an upturned flower pot, “there it is.”

“1 minute to let it cool,” said Valerie.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Max, “but you want it to cool, you gotta let it sit. Gives me a couple minutes to sit down.”

“It’s done, then?”

“Eh, close enough. You put it in too soon you burn his throat on the way down. It’s like a nice whiskey, but it’s not nice and it leaves scars.”

“Inside the throat?” said Ryan, “How can you tell?”

Max gave him a _look._ “Sonny, you don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“I’ve seen scurvy,” said Ryan, crossing his arms, “Not sure hearing about you cutting open a dead man’s throat is any worse.”

Max laughed.

“It’ll be good to go when the chocolate stops melting off of it,” said Valerie, touching up said chocolate with a large brush.

There was a long silence.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it’s supposed to make that much of a difference whether it waits a minute if it’s hot enough to burn,” said Ryan, after a few moments, seemingly for no other reason than to fill the silence.

“Not that kind a’ burning,” said Valerie, brushing up a few dripped droplets, “takes a lot to get you up when you’re mostly dead. Nothing you’d want to get on your skin, and _definitely_ nothing you’d want in your mouth.”

“Try smearing it on a lock, you wouldn’t have much left when it was done,” said Max, “But, you get it in your stomach, and if you can wake up, it’ll wake you up. He’s gonna smell, though, somewhere between a barnyard and an alchemist having a bad day. It’ll go away after a few weeks… Or months.” He shrugged. “Miracles don’t come cheap.”

“Speaking of which!” said Ryan, “have we covered the costs?”

“Should be ready,” said Valerie, forestalling the question.

Buttercup stood.

“Hold him up,” said Max, gesturing to her, and she stepped over to the table, took Westley by the shoulders, and pulled him halfway upright.

Max picked the pill up in a tool that resembled nothing so much as a large pair of pliers.

Valerie reached forward, and pulled Westley’s mouth open.

It was a painfully slow process to place the pill into his mouth, and then Valerie pushed his jaw shut, _twisted_ something, and Westley’s body convulsed slightly, and he swallowed.

“How long until we know if it works?”

Max shrugged, gesturing to let him back down.

“Normally, a few seconds. Something like this, a bit longer.”

“Is this… More nearly dead than usual?”

Max nodded. “Normally they’re just bleeding real bad, the kinda thing that you just patch ‘em up and make sure they’re drinking enough. Speaking of which, he’s gonna be real thirsty when he wakes up.”

Buttercup blinked, and-

There was a long, drawn out gasp, as Westley’s whole body tensed, eyes wide, and… He slowly sank back down, eyes closing again, and for a moment, she thought he was entirely still, until… No, the way his mouth was just slightly open… As she put her ear closer, she could just make out the sound of his breathing.

Max put his hands up in the manner of one who knew they had just done something exceptional but expected there to be no particular recognition of it. “Give him a few hours. It’s been a long day.”

Buttercup stared down.

He was alive.

He was _actually_ alive, and _here._ Not awake, but... Soon he would be, and...

The thought made her almost dizzy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those keeping score at home (and I'd have


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're alive. They're away.

The sensation of waking up was singular, this time. His body barely felt present, half numb, and he couldn’t tell whether he simply couldn’t feel his fingers, or whether they truly weren’t responding.

His eyes listened, though, and, as he opened them, Westley found himself looking up at the canopy of a forest. He could make out the faint rustle of the leaves, and, after a second, he realized that he _could_ feel the breeze on his face, if only just.

With an effort, he craned his neck, and realized that he was sitting most of the way upright. He had been leaned here, it seemed, unless he had placed himself here and forgotten it… But no. He quite clearly remembered falling to the cobbles on the main street of Florin, and then nothing more, but for a single, blinding moment of wakefulness.

He looked ponderously down, and found his hands neatly arranged in his lap.

He focused, and managed to make one hand open, and then close again.

For a moment, he wondered if he’d died; certainly, he’d never done it before, and it would not be beyond the realm of possibility that his… Soul?

But then again, how much more likely that the same affliction that had come upon him after his time in the Count’s Machine had reasserted itself after that strange concoction had worn off…

Yes, he was surely alive.

He flexed and unflexed his fingers, the strange stiffness of them, coupled with their definitely unwillingness to do as he asked of them making the sensation most unusual.

And then… He stopped.

Just on the edge of hearing, there was a sound, softer even than the rustle of the leaves. A faint humming.

Turning his head was a challenge, but…

Near to him, just on the edge of his vision was a figure in red. That was where the humming was coming from.

“It’s you,” he said.

Buttercup turned, golden hair still cut short, and looked at him, silently, before, after what seemed like an interminable time, nodding.

“You’re awake.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but all of them were too much.

“Where are we?”

“Near the coast. I’m told you were stockpiling a stash of gold here.”

“How did you know?”

“Your old captain told us. He’s showing them where to dig.”

“Then Ryan came here with you,” he said, and managed a weak chuckle. “I shouldn’t be surprised he came with you.”

“You have him to thank that I even made it. He convinced Inigo and Fezzik to wait for me to wake up, and gave us a boat to cross the channel.”

“Of course he did…” He didn’t know either of those names, but he had to assume that one of them was the Spaniard he had fought beside.

There was a long, long silence.

“I would like to apologize,” he said, eventually.

She looked at him impassively.

“I should have sent word.”

More silence.

“That you even came to save me is more than I could have asked.”

He looked down.

“You said you would always return,” she said. “You did, eventually.”

He laughed. “Only when I was afraid that you were to be married, after five years. I should at least have _visited_ before then… I was…” He sighed. “To tell you the truth I was afraid that you would realize that I had become a pirate… become the Dread Pirate Roberts… I left for a lack of wealth, and couldn’t come back for a lack of honor. I always meant to show up again, with a chest of treasure, and a story to tell.”

“And would that story have been the truth?”

He faltered.

“I never did decide that.”

There was a long silence.

Then, softly, as if getting a joke, Buttercup chuckled. “You became a pirate, hoping to return to me someday, and I trained to hunt pirates to avenge you.”

“Yes…”

“A pirate could never be married to a proper lady.”

“No.”

“Yet what proper lady would train to hunt pirates?”

She wasn’t looking at him, staring away into the middle distance.

“Then you are done being Roberts?”

“Do you ask me to be?”

“I do.”

“Then I am.”

She nodded.

“And where will you go now?”

“Where would you have me go?”

“I am going south,” she said, and looked at him. “Follow me?”

“As you wish.”

“I believe we have much more to talk about, before we can call this truly finished.”

“Yes.”

She stood, and reached down to him.

“Then come on.”

He reached up, and took her hand, and squeezed as tight as she could. She pulled, and he slowly rose to his feet.

His body was weak, but, as he balanced upright, he found that he could just about keep himself on his feet.

And then, she was there, unmasked, and close, and-

\--

_There have been any number of scholars willing to debate up and down what it is that makes a truly great kiss, whether it be the passion, or the purity, or some other intangible metric. The sad fact is that they would all of them have been out of their depth, and would, in fact, have had to defer to the much smaller group of scholars who devote themselves to categorizing and ranking the embraces of the world._

_Those scholars, carefully considering, would have largely agreed that while there was not so much of what might have been called ‘passion’ in the fiery sense, such as one would commonly expect from newlyweds and similar lovers, there was a mighty abundance of feeling, all the same. They would have largely agreed that while they could perhaps have had less than one particular embrace that took place after one party very narrowly avoided drowning in a terrible accident at sea, that it would need careful study to truly determine which was the better._

\--

“I’m glad to see you again,” she said, simply, chin resting on his shoulder.

And for once, Westley couldn’t quite find the words he was looking for, so he just squeezed her a little tighter, and hoped that the meaning got across.

\--

“Well,” said Ryan, as they stepped into the clearing, “I think I’m justified in taking what we had to pay to Max, but beyond that, I’ve honestly got all I need.”

“Take all that and double it,” said Westley, walking into the clearing, supported by Buttercup. “I can’t say you haven’t earned it.”

“But I _can_ say that I don’t need it,” said Ryan, and laughed. “Good to see you again, Westley.”

Westley nodded.

“So,” said Ryan, eventually, “what now?”

“We go south,” said Buttercup. “Florin will never be safe for us, now.”

“I’ve seen a great deal of ocean,” said Westley, “but not so much of the land.”

“Hah!” said Ryan, “I suppose that’s true. And you?”

Inigo shrugged.

“I have been in the revenge business so long I did not think about what to do afterwards.”

“Have you considered piracy,” said Westley.

“Does the world _need_ another Dread Pirate Roberts?” said Buttercup.

He gave her a quizzical look.

“Hate to say it, but it does seem a little disingenuous to agree that you stop the piracy in exchange for that revival, and then sending someone out to do it for you,” said Ryan.

“I wasn’t aware of that deal.”

“You were mostly dead at the time,” said Buttercup.

Westley nodded. “I suppose we make the deals we must… Though I suppose one way or the other, I had no reason to return.”

Inigo sighed, staring into the middle distance.

“You could come with us.”

Westley gave her a look, and then slowly nodded. “I have little doubt we will find trouble wherever we go. A master swordsman would not go amiss. And, if you happen to find something of your own to do…”

Inigo nodded. “Good enough.”

“And you?” said Ryan, turning to Fezzik.

Fezzik furrowed his brow.

“I imagine the same offer applies,” said Westley.

Fezzik was clearly relieved, and nodded fervently.

“Excellent,” said Ryan. “Good to have all that sorted out, then.”

“And will _you_ be joining us?”

“Me? No, I just wanted to know where you all went so I could tell the story properly.”

“You won’t go spilling our secrets, will you?”

He laughed. “Oh, no, no more than I spill my own. I’ll change the details around, I think, perhaps write it down; pirate money is all well and good, but there’s something to be said for making an honest living… Inasmuch as writing is _ever_ an honest living, ha! Though, that said, if you hear of an old man on a horse trying to track you down, please, don’t be too quick to kill him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Westley.

“Nor I,” said Buttercup. “Now, we have the money. Are we all ready to return to the boat?”

“Please, lead the way,” said Westley.

\--

_And there, I think, the story ends, in one way or another. They went south, of course, stopping at Lowtown, and continuing on. From there, stories spread about master swordsmen and their giant. In point of fact, were it not for the fact that this was some time after the stories of Robin Hood and his band of merry men were public knowledge, I would have assumed that they were the inspiration for him. If even half of what they say about them is true, they’re doing quite well._

_Now, I did, eventually get the book published, though it looked nothing like what you just read. The fact of the matter is that I was missing half the facts for it and had to make the rest up wholesale. It’s mostly worked out, though, and I regularly pick up Mr. Morgenstern’s royalties for him, being as I of course am, his ‘personal financial advisor and assistant,’ a title I acquired after a particular Sicilian gentleman came to speak to me with a few surly guards about how I was clearly portraying him in fiction, and how he wanted a cut of the royalties. I must say, he’s quite persuasive; I eventually had to bribe him so he would leave me alone. But I digress._

_As for what happens next?_

_If you happen to find out, do let me know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Grampa..."  
> "Yeah?"  
> "That's the end?"  
> "Yup."  
> "Huh."  
> "Pretty good, right?"  
> "Yeah... Not bad."  
> \--  
> Alright, that's a fic!  
> If you're still here, at the end, thanks for sticking around; this thing has been going since, like, May, and it's the fact that new people kept showing up that really kept me going and really got it finished up, so of course, a big thanks to y'all. This, uh... It really didn't turn out exactly like the Tumblr post, and it stopped being like it ever since they went to Lowtown, but I still call it a win.  
> Frankly, when I started this, I was like 'I guarantee that there's nobody doing Princess Bride stuff,' and I mean, for the most part I was right, but people still showed up for this particular fic, and for that I'm very grateful. Most visibly, thank you to ShippingTrash4Life, rabbit_in_a_lizard_mask, Megxolotl, and AlexSeanchai, and literally like all of y'all that essentially liveblogged your experience in the comments (or, heck, just left comments at all. Big dopamine rush right there)
> 
> Normally, I'd take this opportunity to recommend other stuff like what you just finished, but, uh... this is my only proper Princess Bride fic? I've got The Prince's Bride, of course, which is a Miraculous fic that more closely follows the plot of the original story... It's a bit older, but I still love some of its lines.
> 
> Now, if you're thinking of sticking around, my next fic, assuming all goes according to plan, will be me taking a show that had potential but a notable lack of actual good story and characterization, gutting it, and basically starting over with the same characters (no, I'm not talking about Supernatural, even though the finale just came out). That's the details I'm sticking with, for the moment, so I don't end up committing to something I can't follow up on.
> 
> And that's everything! Have an excellent day, and I will now go to bed. (It is like, 7AM from the wrong side as I post this)


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